


A Light That Never Goes Out

by katiebour



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Accidents, Anal Sex, Angst, Car Sex, Cars, Depression, Domestic Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, Fights, Fluff, Formalwear, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Love, M/M, Male Homosexuality, Marriage Proposal, Money, Possessive Behavior, Songfic, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-09
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-22 10:51:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 29
Words: 53,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/237283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiebour/pseuds/katiebour
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a prompt on the k!meme requesting song!fic of m!Hawke/Anders having car sex to the song "A Light That Never Goes Out" by the Smiths.</p><p>Mature on for sex and triggering material involving depictions of domestic violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Light That Never Goes Out

**Author's Note:**

> This got very, very dark, very fast, but hang in there, all ends well! Promise! Potential triggers for readers- mention of an abusive relationship/beating/threats. But don't worry, Garrett is there to protect his Anders!

I've had this dream before- golden, honeyed eyes on mine, hot mouth on my cock, and _yes_ , he's so good at this, and I thrust into that mouth, that throat, and he takes it so beautifully, _yes_ , fuck yes, Anders-

Then I hear a sound- music?  No, there's no music here, just he and I, hot mouth on my cock and I'm getting close-

Wait, fuck, that's Gnarls Barkley, and the dream is being ripped to shreds as I claw my pillow and groan.  I'm rock-hard, and fuck, five minutes more, just-

I sigh and pick up my cell.  It's his ringtone anyway- he thinks it's hilarious and I simply pretend that I meant _that_ kind of crazy instead of the _you drive me batshit insane because I love you_ kind of crazy.

"Anders," I mumble into the phone, glancing at the clock- yeah, it's three-fucking AM in the morning-

"Garrett," he sobs, and in less than a half-second I am completely awake and clutching the phone.

"Anders," I say, throat dry- oh, god, it's another one of _these_ nights- "Anders, where are you?"

He whimpers and I feel rage, white-hot, in my veins, holding the phone to my ear while I pull on a pair of jeans, slip into my shoes.

"Anders-" I grit my teeth.  "Tell me where you are."

"I'm in the parking lot of the Hanged Man," he whispers.  "I'm so sorry, Garrett."

I snarl as I grab my wallet.  "Did he hurt you- are you all right?"

"Just a few bruises," he says, and I close my eyes, fighting, for the thousandth time, the urge to simply drive to their apartment and _kill_ that bastard Nemis, angry at the world, taking it out on the one person who couldn't, wouldn't say no, the one person who'd never wronged him, who'd _die_ before he'd leave.

I'd heard it all before, Anders pouring out excuse after excuse for the bastard.  Father beat his mother, constantly on the move, never had a real family, had never really been loved- excuse after excuse as to why it was somehow _all right_ for him to beat his lover bloody- anger issues, addiction.  I'd stopped speaking to Anders for a month after the last talk.

 _It's my fault, Garrett_ , he'd said, drunk and crying, honeyed eyes awash with tears, unshaven, gaunt, circles under his eyes and lip split.   _I bring out the worst in him when we fight- I didn't know it'd be like this-_

He'd broken my heart, my best friend whom I'd secretly been in love with for years, my veterinarian with a heart of gold who nursed animals back to health and volunteered at the shelter on weekends.

I'd already adopted three of the cats he couldn't bear to part with, Pounce, Warden, and Wiggums, and when you added my pitbull Mabs to the mix I was spending nearly a hundred dollars a month in pet food and litter.

At least Mabs doesn't shed, and she loves the cats.  It's worth it just to see Anders come over and catch the four of them sleeping in one giant pile.  That bastard Nemis had refused to let him keep a pet of any kind, obviously jealous that Anders would love an animal more than him.

A pet rock would be more loveable, to anyone but Anders.

"I'll be there in a few minutes," I said, fumbling in the entryway for my keys.  "Stay out of sight."  Nemis knew all the usual places, and since the Hanged Man was within walking distance it was likely to be the first place he'd check.  "Stay _safe_ , Anders," I ordered, then hung up the phone.

I threw on my coat and headed out the door- good enough, and maybe _tonight_ I'd be lucky enough to catch that bastard if he came after Anders again.  I entertained a brief fantasy of beating the shit out of him, smashing in that dark face, seeing fear in those blue eyes when he realized that I'd quite happily kill him.  But enough- I hopped in my car, sky-blue '76 Impala handed down with love from my dad, and moments later I was pulling out of the drive.

Say what you like about my car- it's big and it's old, but with the right kind of care she still runs beautifully, and her size guarantees the kind of legroom that Anders and I require.

He'd laughed the first time he'd seen it, my baby parked next to all the shiny luxury vehicles the other trust-fund kids at Yale drove.  He'd stopped laughing once he got inside.  Dad and I had put years of work into her, and while some classic car aficionados prefer to keep things as close to the original as possible, we'd decided that comfort and convenience far outweighed tradition, and made a whole host of upgrades.

We'd just been friends then, he, the brilliant Polish guy with the unpronounceable name and the full scholarship, me, the black sheep of the Boston Amells, eldest son of the daughter who'd run off with the mechanic.

("Jędrzej," he'd answered when I'd asked, and after five minutes of trying to repeat it- "Yend-jay?" he'd simply sighed and said, "It's old Polish, from my mother's side.  Give up while you're ahead and go with Anders- it's what my father's family called me.")

Grandmother and Grandfather never officially forgave her, but when the time came they put all three of us kids through school, and I'll be the first to admit that graduating cum laude from Yale looks fantastic on a resume.

Whatever else it meant, being the son of a mechanic _and_ gay generally meant that I wasn't exactly welcomed in most of the upper-crust social functions.  But once I'd met Anders, Daylen, Sigrun, Dagna, and a whole host of other misfits, I'd realized just how lucky I was to escape that pit of vipers.

I'd loved him, or at least lusted after him, from nearly from the moment we'd met, but that dreamy look in his eyes when he talked about Professor Thekla had steered me away from anything more than friendship.   After Thekla had retired and moved to sunny Baja, we'd gotten drunk together, the alcohol nearly enough to overcome my inhibitions about hitting on my best friend who was recently bereft of his lover- but I'd gone to the bathroom, and when I'd come back to the table I'd found him making eyes at some guy in uniform who'd bought him a drink.

It'd started then, the string of one bad relationship after another, first Rolan, the boyfriend who'd been insanely jealous of just about everything and everyone, following Anders everywhere and trying to drag him home; then it'd been Alaric, the sadist, whose idea of sex had landed Anders in the hospital, twice- the second time I'd convinced him to press charges, and when it'd come to light that the bastard had a history of assault and rape, he'd gone to jail for a long, long time.  It'd been so quiet, after that, I'd hardly dared to hope-

But one day he'd brought Nemis over, the rich, handsome Spaniard who'd smiled and kissed him so sweetly.  I'd been happy for him, I really had, but over the years it'd gone from bad to worse, and by the time we'd realized what a monster he was it was too late.  Rolan had scared him, Alaric, hurt him, but Nemis _owned_ him, and he'd staunchly refused to call the police, had made me promise not to do so.

I'd done it anyway, after Nemis had broken his nose and his arm, but Anders had refused to press charges, then refused to speak to me for four months afterward.  I'd nearly gone insane with worry when he came over one day with a fuzzy orange kitten and begged me to keep it for him, and since then we'd simply pretended it'd never happened.

And here I was, at 3:14 in the morning, pulling into the parking lot of the Hanged Man and picking up the man I loved so that he could hide from the man _he_ loved, the man who was going to kill him one of these days.  A half-sob escaped me and I pulled it back- _rein it in, Garrett, keep calm, he doesn't need you falling apart, he needs you to be strong-_

I took a minute and breathed, deeply, and a second later he was fumbling with the door handle, then getting inside, and he was so pale, and shaking-

"Anders-" god, he was white as a sheet, the swell of a fresh bruise on his jaw, brown eyes nearly black with shock, his shirt ripped, and he was shaking-

I unbuckled my seat belt and leaned over to put my hand on his shoulder.  "Anders, Jesus, what is it, are you hurt-"

"Just drive," he whispered, "please," and it was in that moment I realized that he wasn't wearing any shoes, that he'd run from their apartment to the bar without stopping to put his shoes on-

I drove.

It was dark and quiet, the traffic lights blinking, the roads empty, the mp3s on my phone playing quietly over the car's speakers.  After a few minutes I said quietly, "Blanket's in the back seat," and he'd fumbled for it without a word.

After another five minutes he stopped shaking, and I went through the drive-through at McDonald's, picking us up some burgers.  He took the food without argument, sipping at his soda, and I drove to through the quiet streets, up to the hills, parking in the deserted lot at Prentice Park.

It was dark and quiet up here, safe and surrounded by trees, and I turned the key all the way towards me, shutting off the engine but keeping the electrical system on.  

I snagged the bag of food from him and pulled out my fries and double cheeseburger, handing him his.

He just stared at the food.

"Anders," I said, "when did you eat last?"

He turned to me, blankly.  "Um-"

"If you have to think about it, it's been too long," I said.  "My mother would be force-feeding you by now, you know."

My mother had adored him, and I had a feeling it'd been mutual- the mention of her brought the ghost of a smile to his lips, and he unwrapped the burger and started to eat.

We ate in companionable silence, the low hum of the music, just barely audible, the overhead light shining weakly down on us.

Once we'd finished, shoving the garbage in the bag, I turned off the light.  "So," I said, fighting to keep my voice level, "What happened to make you run out of there without your shoes?"

He fidgeted.  "We were fighting," he said at last, "about politics or something equally stupid."  He laughed mirthlessly.  "He was high, and angry, and the more I tried to calm him down the angrier he got.  He-"

His breath sobbed out, then back in, and I reached over and wordlessly gripped his hand.

"He hit me, and I told him I was leaving, for good this time, that I'd had enough."

My jaw dropped.  "Anders," I breathed, "that's fantastic-"

"And then he pulled a knife on me, and told me that he'd kill me if I tried to leave, that no one else could have me, and that he'd see me dead first-"

I saw red.  "I will fucking _kill_ him before he can touch you," I said, "I will _kill_ him, Anders, I swear-" when I looked over and saw the look on his face, I put my head in my hands and took a breath.  Deep breaths.

"Sorry," I whispered, "You don't need another violent crazy bastard in your life right now."  I looked over to see a smile on his face, tears in his eyes, and when he started to laugh, it was more full of hysteria than mirth.

"Oh, Garrett," he wheezed, "You can be _my_ violent crazy bastard any day."

When the laughter turned to tears I got out of the car, went around to his side, pulled him out, then pushed him gently into the backseat, blanket and all.  Then I went back and pulled the front seats forward as far as they'd go, then got in back and just held him, rocked, and let him cry.

"Why-" he choked out, "Why do I keep ending up with these bastards?"  Tortured brown eyes looked up at me, lashes studded with tears, and he whispered, "Is it me?  Is there something wrong with me that-"

"No," I said, fiercely, something breaking in my chest as I gathered him close.  "No, no, Anders, it's _not_ you.  God knows you have shitty taste-" A muffled laugh came from the vicinity of my chest- "But it's not you.  You're brilliant, kind, gorgeous- you're everything anyone could wish for."

When he tilted his head up to look at me, the words I'd never spoken spilled out of my mouth, it was just too much, emotions running too high, and as I smoothed away the tears on his face, I whispered, "Everything I could wish for," and brushed my lips across his.

He gasped against my mouth, and I realized, suddenly, that I was kissing my best friend, the very thing I'd dreamed of doing for _years_ after dinner, after taking him out, romancing him, making him laugh, but here I was, kissing him in the backseat of my car at nearly 4 in the morning, right after his bastard ex had threatened to kill him-

And then his hands clutched my shoulders, mouth opening under mine, and I was lost.  

We stayed in that moment for I don't know how long- forever, not nearly long enough, minutes, every gasped breath, tangle of tongues, press of lips better than I could have ever dreamed because it was _Anders_ , my Anders, and when he pushed me down on the bucket seat I went without a murmur.

My jeans were too tight, the skin on my chest hot- I hadn't bothered with a shirt, just a coat, I'd been in such a hurry, and when his hands skimmed over my nipples I moaned into his mouth.

After another moment he tore his mouth away.  "Garrett," he gasped, "you never _said_ anything-"

"I wanted to," I groaned, "but every time I turned around you already had someone else, and I didn't want to interfere-"

"How long," he said, voice rasping.

"Since the day we met," I answered truthfully, wringing a moan of frustration from him before he bent down to kiss me breathless again.  When one of his thighs slipped between mine, I rubbed up against him with a choked cry, feeling an answering hardness against my hip.

We struggled into a sitting position, he unbuttoning and shoving down my jeans with desperation as I kissed his neck, sliding my hand into his slacks- ever the gentleman, my Anders-

And then he was straddling my lap, hands and cocks rubbing, and I opened my eyes to see him watching me, mouth swollen with kisses, eyes dark with lust, that beautiful golden hair gleaming in the moonlight-

"Oh _god, yes_ ," I gasped, and a moment later I bucked and came over his hand with a ragged groan, he following a moment later, that beautiful cock throbbing in my hand as he spurted and cried out, his hot come spilling over my stomach.

We panted in the closed confines of the car, heartbeats slowing, and eventually I grabbed the blanket and wiped us off, then moved to slide my hands along the thighs that straddled me, up his hips, the sides of his chest before wrapping my arms around him and pulling him tight.  

The Smiths were playing quietly over the speakers, the lyrics thrumming softly through both of us:

 _Take me out tonight  
Oh take me anywhere, I don't care  
I don't care, I don't care  
Driving in your car  
I never never want to go home  
Because I haven't got one  
No, I haven't got one_

"Garrett," he whispered uncertainly, hands coming around to cup the back of my neck as I rested my head against his chest.

"Come home with me," I said softly, begged, really.  I was _done_ fighting this- I needed him, wanted him, and if nothing else I would keep him safe, see him out of this disaster, and if it was over between us, well, at least he'd be all right.  "I-" I struggled- "I didn't mean to- spring this on you.  Just come home with me, and be safe, and we can get your clothes and things, set you up in your own place, with Pounce and Warden and Wiggums, although Mabs will miss them-"

He threaded his fingers through my hair and tugged, pulling me back, and I lost it, for a moment, so afraid- _What if this is all we'll ever have?  What if he says no?_ and my gasping breath, nearly a sob, clearly audible.

When he kissed me it was like a perfect storm of emotion, _oh, god, yes, thank you, thank you,_ and I felt hot tears well under my closed lids.  "I love you," I whispered, "I've always loved you, and I can't _stand_ to see you be hurt any more-"

"Garrett," he murmured, like a benediction, holding me close, him comforting me, and in the still and the calm we listened to the music-

 _To die by your side  
Well the pleasure, the privilege is mine_

"All right," he said quietly, and we untangled, slowly, a few more lingering kisses before I got behind the wheel and drove us home.

 _There is a light that never goes out-_

I'd left the porch light on, and Mabs met us at the door, tail wagging as she spotted Anders.

"Down, Mabs," he said with a shaky laugh, Pounce already twining around his ankles while I hung up my coat and made sure the door was securely locked behind us.

I left him petting the kitties while I went to the hall closet and got out my bat, bringing it in and setting it beside the bed.  If Nemis tried to come after him here, I'd be ready and waiting.

I pulled him into the shower and washed his hair, running soapy fingers over him while he kissed me to distraction.  The bruises didn't look too severe, thank god, and I was going to do my best to get him to call the cops tomorrow, file a report, get a restraining order, an escort when we went to go get his stuff.

At 5 in the morning I pulled him into bed, holding him close, and whispered everything I'd ever wanted to say but had never been able to until he fell asleep in my arms, safe, loved.

Later that day we filed a report, and I held his hand while the cop took his statement, Mabs resting her head on his knee for support.

I took her with us when we went to get his clothes and things, Mabs and the police watching Nemis while Anders packed everything in my car.  In the meantime, I called my old friend Alistair, of the Boston Theirins, and called in every favor I'd ever racked up.

Fifteen minutes later, Nemis' cell rang, and I listened to the bastard make excuses over the phone, skin blanched grey with fear.   _Come near him again, and we'll have you deported on drug charges, and won't that embarrass your ambassador father?_   Thank god for the Theirins.

In the meantime, once the restraining order went through, if he so much as stepped foot on my property I'd have him arrested.  Might get in a few licks with the baseball bat first- yeah, pretty sure Aveline would let that slide.

But for now, a friendly warning would suffice- I stepped over and said conversationally, "If you come anywhere near him ever again, you won't live to be deported."  I looked him full in the eyes and let my inner violent crazy bastard show, and it must have worked, because he started back as a mirthless smile spread across my lips.

Without another word I met Anders at the door, taking one of the two boxes he was struggling with and carrying it to the car.  "Any more?" I said over my shoulder.

"That's- the last of it," he huffed, and I waved to the police as we got in the car.  "Let's go home," I said, and backed the car out, Mabs sitting in the back, tongue lolling out as she enjoyed the breeze.

The Smiths were playing again, and as I looked over, I saw that he was watching me with affection, one hand resting comfortably on my thigh.

 _There is a light that never goes out-_

"Love you," I said, and he smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jędrzej is indeed an old Polish version of “Andrew,” and “Anders” is the Norwegian equivalent, so in this story Anders is Polish/Norwegian. Also, “Nemisio” is a Spanish name for men meaning, of course, “justice,” but I shortened it up.


	2. Unloveable, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First part of the sequel/next chapter to A Light That Never Goes Out.
> 
> It's not done and I haven't even gotten to the part that will fulfill the requirements of the prompt on the k!meme, so it's not going up there just yet.
> 
> Going with titles by the Smiths because I've never really listened to their music, and it's a way to give them a listen.
> 
> This part of the fill is dealing with Anders' self-image and his reaction to the things he's gone through. The song that goes along with this title is heart-breakingly fitting.
> 
> And Garrett is a landscape architect, just in case you weren't sure.

When we got back to the house, I helped him unload the boxes and carry them inside.  Mabs and the cats quickly got underfoot, so I shut the boys in the bathroom (to their disgust and loud protests) and let Mabs out in the backyard.  Once we were done, I let the cats out, and Mabs in.  Merrill would be by to walk her in an hour or so-

Anders looked at me and the boxes, obviously unsure.  "Should I-" his voice trailed off, and I finally caught on.

"Um," I said, brilliantly.  "I know this must be kind of crazy, for you."

He laughed faintly.  "It's not every day I get out of one relationship and into another in the space of hours- well, not since high school, anyway-"

I rolled my eyes.  "Going to get out the pictures again?"

He grinned widely, then.  "Come on, Garrett," he smirked, "Not everyone can take four people to prom at once."

I shook my head in mock disapproval.  "You're a kinky bastard, I'll give you that."

"Oh," he purred, stalking forward to smooth his hands up my shirt.  "You have no idea."

I swallowed, slightly breathless.  I'd always admired that about him, the way he exuded charm, effortless sexuality, but I'd never been the target of it before.  I slipped my hands around him, tugging the button-up dress shirt out of his belted slacks, then slid my hands up his back, enjoying the play of bare skin under my fingers.

I leaned down and kissed him, gently, enjoying the faint sigh as he relaxed against me.  He was the perfect height, just a few inches shorter than my 6'5", enough for me to enjoy lording it over him, but not so far that I had to bend uncomfortably to kiss.

As fun as it'd be to hop into bed with him and let him show me the full extent of said kinkiness (and oh, god, just the thought of all the things we'd had yet to even _talk_ about doing made my heart skip a beat) I wasn't idiot enough to think that he could just toss off the skin of his old life and jump into a new one with me so easily.  Whatever words I'd said, whatever feelings I'd professed, it hadn't escaped my notice that he hadn't said them back.  Not that I could really fault him, but- well.  I reluctantly broke the kiss and looked down into those honeyed amber eyes, now slightly clouded with lust.

"Anders," I said, rubbing his back in little circles, "You can stay here as long as you want, or we can go find you a place of your own this afternoon.  You can unpack your stuff and put it anywhere you'd like, or leave it, or we can put it in storage.  You're not-" I gulped- "obligated to be with me, whatever my feelings are.  I'm here for you, in whatever capacity you need me to be."

He let out a little sigh.  "Garrett, I-" he pulled away and walked a few feet, running his hand awkwardly though his hair.  "I don't know what I want.  This morning I just wanted to get away, and God knows you've always been there for me.  I just never- I thought you didn't think about me that way, so I didn't either-"

I'd always noticed the way he said "God" with the upper-case G, a little extra emphasis.  I knew his parents were devoutly Catholic.  I'd been a skeptic in a family of skeptics, he, devoutly religious amongst a similarly like-minded family.  He'd spoken to me a bit over the years about the schism his relationships had caused between him and his parents- they'd been fine as long as he'd dated girls, but once he'd expanded to the other sex they'd thrown a fit.  As far as I knew they hadn't spoken to him in years.  He didn't regularly attend services except on holidays, and we'd agreed to disagree on the nature and possible existence of a divine creator years ago.

I pulled myself back to the present with a shake of my head.  "You can have the spare room," I said awkwardly.  "For your stuff, if you want.  And if you want to sleep there, that's fine too, although if you want to stay with me-" I was babbling- _pull it together, Garrett_ \- "You're obviously more than welcome to," I finished.

I looked up from the perusal of my shoes to see him smiling at me.

"I don't think I've ever seen you like this," he said, "It's endearing."

"I'm a lot smoother in my head," I muttered, to which he let out a bark of laughter.

"Garrett Hawke, successful entrepreneur, rescuer of friends in need, handyman extraordinaire, brought low at last!" he joked.  "And here I was beginning to think that you did _everything_ well."

"I have my weak spots," I replied.

"And how delighted I am to find that I am apparently one of them," he said with a soft smile, walking forward and pulling me down for another drugging kiss.

"I'll take the spare room," he murmured against my lips, "For my stuff." When his cell rang, the familiar and irritating _Who Let the Dogs Out_ signaling a call from the clinic, he pulled back and flipped it open.  "Dr. Haugen," he said, and I watched him pull out his professional side- the doctor, apparently, was now in.

"Again?" he said, sighing.  He waved a hand at me and walked away, making encouraging noises as he began to pace.  I took that as a sign that he'd be a while, and decided I might as well get to work.

Stepping into my office, I flipped on the light switch to counteract the perfect dark that the curtains made.  Some people think that artists are inspired by "natural light," but for my purposes carefully controlled lighting is key to getting the exact color that I want.  Add to that the fact that I often spend a large portion of my day at a keyboard, and well- screen glare just pisses me off.

But I wasn't going to bury myself in AutoCAD just yet- the Vael project was just getting off the ground, and at this stage of the game I usually find it easier to sketch out my ideas by hand first.  Call me a traditionalist, but I _like_ the feel of a pencil in my hands, paper under my fingers, and giving my clients the finished piece as a work of art ends in recommendations and further commissions more often than not.

I had photos of the Starkhaven grounds pinned up over my drafting table, and as I settled into my stool I perused them carefully.  It was one of those old turn-of-the-century places, built by a tycoon with more money than sense, and abandoned for years when the family branch here had died out.  

But the Vaels in Scotland had held onto the place, and now the youngest had come from across the sea to claim it for his own.  I'd had enough contact with rich playboys to develop a keen dislike, (excepting Alistair, who was, in spite of his family, a great guy), but Sebastian seemed a decent enough sort, certainly easy on the eyes, and that _accent-_

Well, enough said on that point.  If he was willing to throw money my way to restore the grounds to their former glory, with some modifications, well, far be it from me to complain.  I turned on the lamp attached to my drafting table, opened a drawer and pulled out my selection of drafting pencils, color-coded by diameter, and sat on my stool, spreading out a fresh sheet of vellum.

Looking at the pictures of the grounds, overgrown with weeds and dead trees, I felt the familiar stir of excitement.  A path there, next to the pond, shaded with trees, perhaps a stone bench-

I rolled the straightedge down, took a deep breath, and began to draw.

I heard Anders puttering around, no doubt putting his things away, and some time later I heard Mabs' happy bark, Merrill's answering voice as she took her for a walk, but I shoved these things to the back of my mind and drew.  It started to come together, yes, a retaining wall there, and the traditional English herb garden there-

When my phone rang, I shook myself out of my near-trance, gathering my thoughts.  "Hawke Design, Garrett speaking," I answered.

"Does anyone else answer your cell?" came the amused voice on the other end.

"Varric," I said, sitting back, rolling my neck.  "I hope you're calling to tell me that my order's ready."

"Hawke," he said with a smirk audible even over the phone, "Have I ever disappointed you?"

"You take your sweet time," I said, "but no, you've never disappointed me."

"Good product takes time, Hawke," he answered smoothly, "And for you, nothing but the best.  But as it happens, yes, your new cards and brochures are ready for you to pick up."

"Perfect I said," stretching my back, "I'll be over in twenty."

"Give any more thought to that book?" he said, and I grimaced.

"I don't know, Varric."  I did know, in fact, lusted after the idea of a book of my own designs, before-and-after photos, discussion of technique, but I wasn't _ready_ , or confident enough, to really give it a go.  If I printed up a garage-full and no one bought them I had no idea what I'd do.  My clients had expressed interest, my mailing list was active, but, well.

"I'll think about it," I promised, "See you in twenty."  I hung up and shut off the light, walking into the hallway.

I yelped as I nearly ran into Anders.  "Jesus, you startled me," I said, then noticed that he'd gone pale.

"Anders?" I said, reaching out a hand to touch his shoulder, "What-" he flinched away and I stood-stock still.

He'd acted like I was going to hit him.

"Anders," I said around the sudden lump in my throat, "Are you ok?"

"Fine," he said, eyes wide in the darkness of the hall, and it made me wonder how many times he'd been set upon in a dark hallway, startled into fear by the very person he was supposed to trust, the person who was supposed to love him-

How many of these little reactions had he hidden over the years, how many had I missed because I'd been unwilling to look too closely, because I'd known he wasn't _mine_ to take care of?  

Why hadn't I done more to protect him?

"I won't hurt you," I whispered, and he gave a strangled gasp and turned away, striding out of the hallway into the well-lit living room.

I was hot on his heels.

"Stop," I said, nudging him up against the couch as he tried with shaking fingers to slip his loafers on.  "Don't run, Anders."

"I'm no good for you, Garrett," he said roughly, "I'm broken inside- you need someone normal. Someone who's not so fucked-up-"

"Fuck _that_ ," I said, emotion creeping up on me.  "I've wanted you for _years_ , Anders, and I know what they did to you.  I was there, remember?"

"It's like there's two people inside me," he choked out, "the normal one, the one you went to school with, the one who goes to work, the one who gets me through the day-to-day.  Then there's the other one, the one that's scared and angry and so fucked-up he can't even stop being afraid of the best thing that's ever happened to him-"

I pushed him up against the wall, anything to keep him from running, from leaving me like this.  "Look at me," I said with a semblance of calm.  " _Look_ at me, Anders."

He did, and I could see the fear in his eyes, could feel the way he was trembling.

"I- don't- care." I enunciated.  "You're my best friend and the man I've been in love with for years, and whatever you're feeling, whatever you need to do, it's _ok_.  I-"

I felt a wave of self-loathing rise like a wave and I turned away so he wouldn't see.  "I should have said something, years ago.  I should have _done_ something.  But I didn't, because I was so afraid that you'd push me out of your life, so I just stood by and let them hurt you, because I was too much of a coward-"

"Garrett," his voice was full of disbelief, "Are you blaming _yourself_ for my asshole boyfriends?"

"No," I said, "I'm blaming myself for not doing more to protect you-"

He sighed, and unbelievably, I felt his arms come around me.  "Garrett," he said, "You tried.  I remember when you called the cops on Nemis- I remember every time you picked me up, took me to the hospital, every time you sat and listened to me cry over _that fucking worthless piece of shit-_ "

He'd started to sound angry, and odd as it seemed I'd never been so glad to hear it in my life.

"I nearly went crazy after that," I admitted, "before you came by with Pounce.  I was half-convinced you hated me, and the other half was constantly worried that you didn't call because he'd _killed_ you and hidden your body somewhere-"

He let out a bray of laughter, and I felt my lips quirk just a bit in response.

"Ok, that's a bit melodramatic," I admitted, "but I was scared, scared for you and scared that you'd never talk to me again."

His arms tightened around me and we stood there for a moment, breathing in the silence.

"Sorry," he said softly after a bit, and I turned in his arms and hugged him.  

"You have nothing to be sorry for," I said, "Although- maybe you should- talk to someone?"  He stiffened up and I continued, quickly, "I know someone- a really great guy, helped me a lot after Mom and Dad died.  Not that you _have_ to, but maybe it'd help, you know, if there're things you'd rather not tell _me_ , but if you want to, that's ok too-"   _Christ, I'm babbling again_.

"Garrett," he said, echoing my thoughts, "You're babbling again."

"Yes," I said, miserably.

"-I'll think about it," he said, quietly, and I let out a sigh of relief.

"So," I said when we pulled apart, "Everything ok at work?"

He grimaced.  "Mrs. Badcrumble called again.  She's convinced that every time her dog shits that he's dying- I've told her time and again to stop feeding him people food, it gives him indigestion, but she's convinced that there's something wrong with him.  I've done every test known to man, x-rays, bloodwork, you name it, and he's _fine_ , except for the rich food.  She brings him in every other week for a checkup.  It's like Munchausen's-by-proxy with a dog."

"Is he all right?" I said, thinking of my Mabs.

He laughed.  "Other than indigestion and constant needless visits to the vet, yes, he is." he was looking at me with affection.  "Softie."

I shrugged, slightly embarrassed.  "Are they ok with you taking a few days off?"

"I took today off," he said, "But I have Saturday and Sunday off anyway.  I'll head back in on Monday."

I frowned.  "You need a car."

Nemis had wrecked his last one months ago- his family had managed to hush up the drunk driving charge, but Anders hadn't replaced the car since.  He'd told me that Nemis had enjoyed driving him around, which I'd read between the lines as _he enjoys controlling where I can and cannot go._

"You can use mine for now, but we should get you something."

His eyes widened in mock surprise.  "You'd trust me behind the wheel of your baby?"

I held back my knee-jerk whimper of fear, and putting on my Confident Face, said, "Of course.  It's just a car."

He smiled then, a real smile.  "No she's not."

"She's not," I admitted, "But if I don't trust you with her then I end up like Varric- moodily obsessing over an inanimate object."

"Varric?" he said.

"My printer," I answered, "And in fact I need to go pick up my new cards.  Want to come with?"

We headed outside and got in the car, and within minutes were on our way.  I'd cued up my 90's playlist, and we were both snickering over the memories of moody grunge and teenage angst, when we'd thought we were _so cool_.


	3. Unloveable, Part II

We arrived at Mach One Printing twenty-five minutes later, and as I walked through the door, the bell on the door jingled, and the master of the shop looked up, blue-button up shirt open at the throat, revealing a thatch of golden-brown chest hair, sleeves rolled up over massive arms.  The gold chain at his throat and slicked-back hair always screamed Italian to me, but Varric had always been surprisingly evasive about his family history.  I wondered if he had mob connections; of course, maybe I've just seen one too many episodes of _the Sopranos-_

"Hawke," he said with a grin.

"Tethras," I replied, breathing in the familiar smell of ink and toner.  "Still printing up bank calendars with pithy sayings and cuddly kittens?"

"Same as always," he replied.  "Still into exterior decorating, or have you given it up at last for a career in theatre?"

We smirked at each other knowingly.  Varric and I go back a long, long ways.  "How's Bianca?" I asked.

"Beautiful as always," he said with a fond smile.  "Baby still treating you good?"

I gestured out the plate-glass windows where she shone, a glowing blue gem.  "Never better."

His attention shifted behind me, and as Anders stepped up I offered introductions.  "Varric, this is Anders,..." I paused for a moment; he wasn't _technically_ my boyfriend, was he?  "A friend of mine," I finished.  "Anders, this paragon of manliness is Varric Tethras, printer and fellow owner and enthusiast of fine motor vehicles."

Varric eyed me- he hadn't missed the pause, not at all, but he stepped out from behind the counter and offered his hand.

"Any friend of Hawke's is a friend of mine," he said, "And it's more accurate to say that Bianca owns _me_ than the other way around."

"Bianca?" Anders said as his own hand was enveloped in the handshake.

Varric steered him over to the far wall, where a plethora of pictures depicted Bianca in all her pale, shining glory.  "1970 Ford Mustang, Mach One, 428 Cobra Jet, close ratio 4-speed transmission, original interior, less than forty thousand miles on her-" Anders' eyes started to glaze over, and the ever-observant Varric quickly concluded- "But you don't know a solid cam from a carburetor, eh Blondie?"

"Uh, no, sorry," Anders said with an embarrassed smile, and Varric shook his head with a sigh.

"Heathen," he said, clapping Anders on the shoulder before moving behind the counter.  "I'll assume he has other redeeming characteristics," Varric tossed over his shoulder as he disappeared into the back, reappearing with two boxes.

"You'll always be my unattainable ideal, Varric," I said with a leer, and he grinned back.  

"Keep it in your pants, Hawke, I don't play on your team," he answered.

"My poor, broken heart," I said dramatically, and he snorted before handing me the boxes.

"Take a look," he said, and I opened up the first, sliding out a single card.  As the quality cardstock and glossy print came into light, I let out a small sigh of satisfaction.

The outline of a soaring hawk, talons outstretched, burst in vibrant, shining red against the matte finish of the pure white paper.  I flipped it over and admired the simple, minimalist print of my name, phone number, and website in the same raised, glossy black.  Along the bottom it read _Hawke Design_ in the same blood-red as the hawk on the front.  

"Beautiful," I said honestly, and he grinned.  I handed one to Anders and closed the box.

"I told you that you were doing yourself a disservice with those mass-produced ones," Varric replied, and I nodded.

"Consider me converted," I answered.  "Poker on Wednesday?"

"Never miss it," he said, and I nodded.  We said our desultory goodbyes before heading outside.  

As we headed to the car, Anders spoke up.  "Interesting guy," he said, "But is it healthy to be _that_ attached to your car?"

"Bianca's a special lady," I said, "but Varric may possibly take it a bit farther than I'd be comfortable with.  She was one of the last cars Dad and I restored."

"Ah," he said.  "She's very pretty," he offered.  "Very shiny, and, uh, curvy."

I laughed and turned to him.  "You don't have to suddenly subscribe to _Car and Driver_ ," I said, then leaned in and captured his mouth with mine.  I suckled gently on that pouty lower lip that'd been tantalizing me all day, and when he moaned softly against me it was all I could do not to beg him to take me home and fuck me.

When I pulled back, reluctantly, his mouth was slightly swollen, cheeks flushed, and I let out a sigh of appreciation.  "Redeeming characteristics indeed," I said, and he laughed.

"Keep that up, and I'll start to think you just want my body," he said with mock hurt.  

"Do I ever," I said with feeling, and he smirked.  I looked up to see Varric grinning widely at me through the plate glass windows of Mach One, and at his obscene gesture I flipped him off casually.

When we got in the car and I settled the boxes in the back, my stomach rumbled, reminding me that we hadn't eaten a proper breakfast _or_ lunch.

"Want a sandwich?" I said, putting my arm on the headrest of his seat and turning to back my baby out of the parking lot.  "I'm starving."

When I stopped at Subway, he mock-glowered at me.  "Don't you ever cook?" he said.

"Not if I can help it, no," I answered.  "But if you want to, be my guest.  I don't have a lot in the way of groceries, though."

We picked up subs, chips, and drinks and headed home.  Anders looked at me askance when I bought two subs to his one.  "It's not for me," I said by way of explanation.

We'd just settled down on my couch to eat when Merrill came in, Mabs panting happily as she pranced on her leash.

"Hello, Garrett," she said brightly, unleashing Mabs.  "It's a fine day for a walk."

"Merrill," I said, swallowing a mouthful of sandwich.  "This is Anders- he'll be staying here," I said, tossing her the extra sub.

She caught it gracefully and colored prettily.  "Thank you," she said, and I gestured to the couch.  "How's the research going?"

"Merrill's going for her doctorate in history," I said to Anders, "Science and medicine, wasn't it?" I confirmed with her.

"It's going well," she said in her charming accent, unwrapping the sandwich.  "I've been interviewing the Quiripi on traditional native remedies and practices- it's fascinating!  So much of their history has been lost, but-"

She prattled on in between bites, barely finishing half of the sandwich.  "Take the rest with you," I said, and standing up, handed her the envelope with her weekly pay.  

"Keep up the hard work," I said, and she nodded, sighing slightly.  "I'm sure something will come up soon- I'd hire you in a minute, but-"

"You already have, Garrett," she said with a smile.

"For office stuff, I mean, not dog-walking," I replied.  

"You don't need an office assistant," she said, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners.

"And that is the crux of the problem," I said, showing her out.

"Charming girl," Anders said as I settled back on the couch.

"She is," I replied.  "She's brilliant, but not exactly a people person.  Better with animals and ancient history, I think.  She's been looking for full-time work for a while now, but people assume that because she's Welsh that she'll up and leave as soon as she gets her doctorate, and well, the job market is tight-" I shrugged.  "It's like having another little sister," I said.

"Hmm," he said, slowly.  "You know, our receptionist just gave notice at the clinic- she's expecting and wants to stay at home with the baby.  If you'd vouch for her-"

"She'd be _perfect_ ," I said.  "Anders, that'd be fantastic-"

"Give me her number and I'll give her a call later," he said decisively, and I grinned.

"Oh-" I said suddenly, and bit my lip.  "Um, you guys don't do mandatory drug-testing, do you?"

His eyebrows raised and I sighed at the scowl on his face.

"Look, she doesn't do anything hard," I said.  "She just smokes weed every now and again- but she's one of the most dependable people I know-"

" _Garrett_ ," he said warningly, and I sighed again.

"I know it's a touchy subject, what with Nemis-" I started to say, but he cut me off.

"You _don't_ know," he answered angrily.  "And God, I hope you never do."

I leaned forward and took his clenched hand in mine.  "Anders," I said, "It's not my thing- you know I don't touch drugs of any kind.  Mom would've killed me," I continued.  "But Merrill's a good kid, and weed isn't the same as meth.  I'd vouch for her in a heartbeat, and if you give her a shot I _promise_ you won't be disappointed.  She's been walking Mabs every day for a year and a half now, and she's never missed a day, never made any excuses, always cleans up the yard and takes care of the litterboxes.  She's a good girl," I said.

"Fine," he said at last, "I'll give her a call, and if she's interested I'll give her a month's trial period.  But if she comes to work under the influence even _once_ -"

"She won't," I said, and he nodded.

I stood up and stretched.  "I need to get back to work on those sketches for the Vael project," I said, then fumbled in my pocket for my keys and wallet.

"If you want to pick up some groceries-" I handed him Baby's keys and pulled my debit card out of my wallet.  When I told him the PIN his eyebrows rose again.

"That's-"

"Your birthday," I admitted.  "So I never forget."

His face softened and he pulled me down for another kiss.  "Just for that, you get a trial period for your little Welsh girl _and_ dinner."

"Buh," I said, intelligently, as his lips on my neck, fingers up my sides made the blood rush from my head to other, more interesting places.  He chuckled against my throat, then gave me a little push.

"Go work," he said, and as I walked down the hallway, discreetly adjusting myself, I heard him whistle, keys jangling as he headed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have some Varric and Merrill! The Quiripi are one of Connecticut’s native tribes, and occupied the area around New Haven, where Yale is located. I’ve sort of decided that Garrett and Anders are still in the area, although I’ve yet to pin down if they actually live in town or not.
> 
> I don’t know much about cars, so everything I’ve put here is the result of research. If you’d like to see an approximate picture of Bianca, go here:
> 
> http://www.quarterbore.com/mustang/1970mach1.htm


	4. Unloveable, Part III

I worked, the quiet of the house both pleasant and not at the same time.  I was an only child until I was six, and although my parents were wonderful, there were simply days where Mom was busy, Dad working, and I was left to my own devices.  Once the twins came along, though, our house was never quiet, and over the years I'd grown used to the two of them tagging along behind me, or fighting with each other or fighting with me, whichever the case was.  

Someone was almost always crying (All right, _Carver_ was almost always crying) and being fussed over.  When I'd gone off to college I'd been surrounded with crazed, wonderful, noisy friends, and it wasn't until I'd graduated and gotten my own apartment that I'd recaptured the quiet of my solitary childhood.

At first I'd reveled in the calm, but as time went on I'd realized that I'd come to associate bustle and noise with family, friends, love, and after about six months I realized how much I missed company.  At least at work I'd had co-workers, but when I'd finally branched out and started my own company even that had disappeared.

I was a successful bachelor running my own business; I owned my own home; it seemed rude to be ungrateful for the hand fate had dealt me.  I was a Yale graduate and my grandparents, _the_ Boston Amells had left myself, Bethany, and Carver a substantial inheritance- technically I don't really _have_ to work.

But I don't know what I'd do with myself if I didn't have a trade- Dad drilled a strong work ethic into the three of us, and it's not easy to try and trade the habit of being useful for leisurely indolence.   Plus, even when I hate it, I love my work.  Seeing my designs forged onto the landscape like dreams made real- a garden, a park, an overgrown empty lot transformed into a communal vegetable and botanical garden- there's nothing quite like watching it all come together.

I'd gotten Mabs when the thought of coming home to an empty house had grown too oppressive.  I'd visited the shelter with Anders on one of his weekends- he'd left me with the dogs while he went to the in-house clinic to volunteer his services.

I'd seen her that day, a six-month old with a ridiculously cute face, half-white and half-brindle-gold, too old for those looking for a puppy, written off as "dangerous" by virtue of her breed.  I'd knelt in front of her cage, giving her my hand to sniff, and she'd grinned her beautiful doggy grin, tail wagging, and, well, I'd melted.

Another person had walked by and commented with a sniff, "Dangerous, those ones.  Liable to kill you as soon as you turn your back.  Shouldn't be legal to own a dog like that around here."  Mabs had looked up at me with her big brown eyes, tennis ball held loosely in her mouth, and I'd wanted to smack the hell out of that idiot.

When I'd found out she was scheduled for euthanasia I'd forked over money and filled out the paperwork as fast as I could, and the minute I had her out of there I'd finally breathed a sigh of relief.

I've heard everything people say about pits, how they're vicious fighters, dangerous, deadly- bullshit.  Mabs is strong, yes, but she's also one of the most intelligent and sweet-tempered dogs I've ever had the privilege of owning.  She was ridiculously easy to train, loves people, and whimpers every time Anders gives her a shot.  He's nicknamed her "Crybaby," and I think she loves him almost as much as she loves me, despite the needles.

Mabs helped with the loneliness- even now I can reach out with a bare foot and find her snoozing under my drafting table, keeping me company.  But the quiet is starting to get on my nerves, so I cue up my music library on my computer, and soon I'm humming along with Black Lab, relaxing into that half-trance as my ideas flow onto paper, yes, just there, and when the music shifts to The Cure, then Rammstein, then a bit of country, then arias from Vivaldi's _Orlando Furioso_ , it fades into comfortable noise.

************************************************************************

I vaguely note when Mabs gets up and trots out; Anders is home, the sound of the door, opening, closing, opening and closing again, and footsteps as he no doubt carts in whatever groceries he's seen fit to buy.  Time slips by and I have colors out now, shading _just so_ -

When hands settle over my shoulders I yelp in surprise.  "Relax, Garrett," Anders purrs in my ear, and as I try to catch my breath he peers over my shoulder.

" _Wow_ ," he says, and for a moment I'm ridiculously happy that he approves.  "Garrett, that's...beautiful."

I feel my cheeks redden a bit.  "Glad to know my college education didn't go to waste," I quip, and I can feel the stiffness in my shoulders and neck- how long have I been working?

"What time is it?" I ask, and his left arm snakes under mine, wrist tilting to show me the dial of his watch- 8:26.

I lean back and stretch, hearing my shoulder pop as I reach towards the ceiling.  "Sorry," I say, "I got a bit caught up in the moment- just trying to get this project off the ground."

When he moves back, and strong hands and fingers are suddenly massaging my shoulders, I can't stop the groan of pure delight.  "You have about-" he hits a sore spot, soothes it, and I _mmmn_ , my eyelids closing- "a hundred years to stop doing that."

"Greedy," he chides, but he doesn't stop, and oh, god, hnnn, it was worth sitting like this for four hours straight just to get him to make it better.

"You have magic hands," I sigh, and he gives me a few more rubs before pulling back, hands coming up to either side of my head, fingers twiddling theatrically as he says, "Ta-da!  Sparklefingers!"

I might have whined a little bit when he stopped.  A little.

"Come on," he says, tugging on my sleeve, "Time to eat, oh slayer of paper dragons, rescuer of decrepit gardens and sad public spaces."

"I don't know whether to feel flattered or emasculated," I grumble, but I let him tug me out of the room and down the hall to the living room.  To my surprise he's set the dining table, actual plates of actual food, wineglasses, and... _candles_?  "Wow," I blink.  "I don't think I've ever actually _eaten_ at the table."

I usually just drop stuff on it, papers, junk- the cats like to sleep there, too.  It's a great table for card games as well, but when it's just me I usually sit on the couch with a pair of chopsticks and six cartons of Chinese takeout and watch SciFi (that new acronym with the y's is ridiculous, honestly.  And why do they give you so much rice?)

The cats try to eat out of the cartons, I try to catch them, and if I occasionally slip them a tidbit, well, no one's the wiser, right?

But he's made an actual dinner, something pasta-y that smells and looks amazing, a tossed spinach salad, and _is that a basket of garlic bread??_   My jaw is a little slack, hell, people _pay_ to eat this kind of dinner, and he snorts, and suddenly I realized that I'd just spoken aloud.

"Technically, you did," he says, reaching into the pocket of his beautifully tailored slacks and pulling out my debit card, handing it to me.

"I- just-" I stutter around the words a little bit, "thanks.  I don't think anyone's really _cooked_ for me before."

He shrugs nonchalantly, but the little smirk on his face says that he's pleased.

We sit and eat, and the carbonara is amazing, the salad delicious, the white wine crisp and dry and perfect, and I'm find it hard to say much.  He's in a white button-up shirt, sleeves rolled up, open at the throat, the pale skin of his arms offsetting the dusting of golden-red hair, and he's left his hair down, tucked behind his ears.  He hasn't shaved, presumably because of the faint purpling of the bruise on his jaw, and he's amazingly beautiful in the gleam of the candlelight.

He catches me sneaking a glance and the corner of his mouth twitches in an adorable half-smile.  "What?" he says, but some hint of breathiness in his voice tells me he knows that I can't stop staring at him.

"You look gorgeous," I answer, and my voice is a little gravelly- I swallow and watch his eyes watching my throat move.

He flushes, the tiniest bit, and the wine is putting us in the same place that adrenaline did last night, the air sizzling between us with unspoken want, need.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mabs:  
> http://www.itchmo.com/wp-content/uploads/2007/07/p1010056.jpg
> 
> http://www.saldf.ca/wp-content/uploads/2010/10/pit-bull.jpg


	5. Unloveable, Part IV

Anders is sitting, quietly, and he looks at me, _really_ looks at me, and I feel myself flush with more than just wine.

"You're not so bad, yourself," he answers, the words flippant but the tone serious, and I really don't know where we're going, or how to get there- oddly enough the fact that we know each other so well, yet not at all in this respect makes a wider, more difficult gap to bridge then if we'd simply been flirtatious strangers.  I don't know if it's because there's a seven-year friendship on the line, or if it's because we're mixing _eros_ with _philia_ , a dangerous, heady ingredient like a layer of paint on top of a work we'd thought was already finished.

He sits back, twiddling the stem of the wineglass in his fingers, and watching me, says, finally, "So.  How is it that you never said anything to me?"

I chewed the inside of my bottom lip.  "I-" I sighed.  "How do you say 'hey, by the way, best-buddy-of-mine in a relationship with someone else, I'd like to take you out and then take you home, 'kay?"

"I wasn't always with someone else," he said, eyelashes long and bright against his cheek as he watched the spin of the empty glass in his fingers.

I shrugged.  "You needed me as a friend, and you never-" I looked away.  God, this was hard to admit.  "You never seemed to look at me like that, so I assumed you weren't interested."

We sat in silence for a moment, and then I stood up and gathered the plates.

"I can get that," he said, standing, and I shook my head, shaking off the moment.

"Cook doesn't clean- Mom's rules," I said, and heading into the kitchen, began to rinse them before loading up the dishwasher.  I usually just wash stuff by hand, the occasional bowl, spoon, and mug more than enough to sustain a diet largely made up of coffee, cereal, and Spaghetti-Os, but with plates and silverware and bowls and pots and pans I actually might have a load to run soon.   _Need to pick up dishwasher soap_ , I thought, putting it on my mental list while I rinsed.

Anders pattered around the kitchen, putting away the salad dressing and leftovers- I raised an eyebrow to see the tupperware-   _Do I even own tupperware?  Apparently I do now._

When I was finished, I turned to see him grinning at me.  "Let's get you out of those wet clothes," he smirked, eyeing the wet patch where I'd inadvertently doused myself, and I rolled my eyes.

On _second thought_ \- "Whatever you say," I said, gathering my liquid courage and calling his bluff, and before I could think the better of it, tugged the t-shirt out of my belted waistband and pulled it up.

He made a small sound as I pulled it over my head, and when I had it off, held in one hand, he just stood there, flushed, eyes darkening.  "You're doing wonderful things for my ego," I said, closing the few steps between us.

"Hmm," was all he said, and when he slid palms up my chest, I bent down and kissed him, oh, god, his lips are so soft, the hitch of his breath, the taste of wine, and as his arms wrap around my neck I feel nearly dizzy.

It's the feeling in your stomach when you're on that ride at the fair, the giant boat that swings in ever-widening arcs back, forth, the anticipation tightening your breath, fear and joy and lightness, and then your world is upside down, and you have to push a scream or a laugh through a throat tight with feeling.

That's what kissing Anders is like, for me, and when his hands smooth over my shoulders, when he presses his lips to mine one more time before pulling back, I struggle for breath.

"You're so tense," he says, voice low, and then he's pulling me towards my (our?) bedroom, pulling me onto the bed.

"Lay on your stomach," he says, and I obey.

He straddles my waist, and I can feel the weight of his cock along with the press of his thighs, and thank god I'm not the only one who's aroused.

When he begins to press knuckles into the stiff muscles of my back, rubbing in circles, I can't help the moan of mingled pain and pleasure that escapes.  

After a few minutes I'm relaxing under his touch, forcing myself not to tense when he hits a particularly resistant muscle, and god, his fingers are so strong.

"I always looked, you know," he says, and my brain can't quite process over the haze of mingled desire and languorous pleasure.

"What," I huff out- he's slim, but he's still got to weigh at least 180, I think, and pressing me into the bed, even with most of his weight on his knees is making it hard to breathe.

"I always looked," he repeats.  "I'm not blind, Garrett, and you're-"  He digs a palm into the muscle just under my shoulderblade and I whine in response.

"I'm-" I gasp, prompting him to continue.

"You're- like Charlton Heston meets Johnny Weissmuller," he said, and I started laughing.

"I hope that's a commentary on my body and not the simian nature of my friends," I quipped, and he smacked me.

"Ok, ok," I said, and unable to help myself, said, "no monkey business."

"Shut up," he said, his body shaking above me with laughter.

I grinned lazily against the softness of the bed.  "We're going to have to have a movie marathon now, you realize that," I said, and he hmmed, hands skimming down, thumbs pressing into the muscle of my lower back.

"So, why-" I sigh as he rubs along the sides of my spine, gently- "didn't _you_ ever say anything?  Since you were-" I grunt as he knuckles a sore spot- "looking."

He's quiet, and the rhythmic slide of the heels of his palms along my back, no longer a massage but a lover's caress now arousing instead of relaxing.

"I was afraid," he says, finally, and although he says nothing more, the air is tinged with the unsaid _afraid to lose you, afraid you wouldn't want me, afraid you wouldn't love me._   I understood.

When he moves off of me, tugs me over on my back, then straddles me again, I pull him down for a drugging kiss.  I'm relaxed, the house is quiet, Mabs and the cats napping in the living room, and here it's just the two of us, breaths loud in the silence, the little moans he's making undoing me.

"Mm," I groan, "You are _so_ goddamn sexy," and when he moans again I bury my face in his neck, breathing in his scent, the faint hint of cologne, musk, sweat, so good, so good.

"What do you like?" he whispers, and I don't know, everything, anything, and I suck a mark on his neck, hard, feeling him tense and rock against me, his back muscles under my hand, underneath the dress cotton of his shirt.

"Garrett," he says, pulling back just far enough that I can't kiss him any more, and I whine a bit, but his fingers are on the buttons of his shirt, and that's good, yes, off.

"Do you want to fuck me," he breathes, "Or do you want me to fuck you?"  

The sound of the word _fuck_ coming out of his mouth does wonderful things to me, and before I can even think I'm begging him, "Fuck me, please, Anders, please."

He looks surprised, and turned on, and when his fingers shake to undo the last few buttons I slide my hands up his thighs.

He pulls the shirt off with quick, clumsy movements, and _god_ , he is so beautiful, like porcelain and fire, milky skin and fine golden hair trailing down from his flat belly, nipples pink against the fine smattering of hair on his chest.  I stroke my own hand up his hip and side, enjoying the contrast of my own darker skin, careful to avoid the purple bruise on his rib.

He leans down, pulling my hands above my head, pushing me into the bed, and as he's licking my neck he says "I thought it'd be the other way around."

When he nibbles on my earlobe all I can say, breathily, is, "Um- surprise?" and he laughs quietly, pulling a hand down, cupping my jaw, toying with my beard.

I keep my hands where he put them- I'm at his mercy, and when he moves down my body, sucking my nipples into tautness, my breath comes out in a shaky moan.

He doesn't stop for long, intent, his fingers are undoing my belt buckle, pulling off my jeans and boxers and tossing them on the floor.  I grip the pillow above me and nearly sob when his mouth closes around me, hot and wet and just like I'd imagined, only better, so much better.

"Anders-" I twist, and his strong hands are on my hips, holding me down, holding me still, " _oh god_ Anders slow _down_."  He swallows me and _oh, fuck_ , I pant with the effort of holding back, not yet, not yet.  " _Please_ ," I say, pitifully, and he sucks gently, coming off of me gracefully.

I'm twitching, hard and wet and already so close.  I look down to see him watching me, and he has that look on his face, smug, mischievous, and once he sees that my eyes are on him he runs his tongue along me.  " _Fuck_ ," I say, and he grins.

He rolls to the side of the bed and pulls off the rest of his clothes.  "Where do you keep-" he trails off, and I nod toward the nightstand.  "Drawer."  He opens it and pulls out the bottle of lube and a condom and sets them on the dresser.

I feel my face redden as I realize he's inspecting my collection of toys, and when he glances back over at me knowingly I break into a full-face blush.  "It's been a while," I say, and he laughs, closing the drawer.

He opens the package and rolls the condom on, and damn if it isn't just as sexy to see him stroking that thin latex barrier over his cock.  He pushes me onto my side, facing away from him, and I hear the cap of the lube click open, the soft sounds as he slicks it over hands or cock or both, I don't know, and then he's curling in behind me, slick fingers sliding inside.

"How long," he says in my ear, and I groan as he begins to finger-fuck me.  "Not since Ethan," I say, and although I immediately want to smack myself for mentioning someone else while he's- _oh, god yes_ \- he doesn't seem bothered.

"The naughty redhead?  That was what, eight months ago?" he said, and I sighed.  

"It was just sex- he was a nice guy, but he wasn't-" he pulls out fingers, and when I feel him, big and slick and hot, pressing against me, I let out a strangled cry.

"-wasn't what, Garrett," he whispers.

"Wasn't you," I say, and when he presses inside we both groan.

"God, you feel good," he moans, starting up a slow rhythm, and it's good, so good.

We shift, slightly, and he keeps up the rhythm, and I'm just enough on my back that we can kiss, and I'm gasping against his mouth, pushing back against him with every thrust.

"When you were in bed, alone," he says, voice strained, "fucking yourself with that dildo, were you wishing it was me, fucking you, like this?"

"Yes," I whimper, his words pushing me closer, the soft sound of flesh against flesh, the perfume of sex in the air, oh, so good, and I'm stroking myself now, so close.

"What else?" he says, and I can't think, there are so many ways I'd imagined it, his mouth on my cock, tongue in my ass, taking me hard, tying me up, me inside him, sucking him off-

"You," I rasp out, "always you," and a moment later I hit that moment, animal, needy sounds coming out of my mouth as I spill over my hand and stomach, and he bites off a curse, moving faster, following a moment later with a full-throated cry, the most beautiful thing I've ever heard.

We lay there, breaths calming, mingling, and after a little while he shifts, pulling out.  "Let me go take care of this," he murmurs, and pads off to the bathroom.

I fumble at my bedside for the ever-present tissues, cleaning myself up through the lassitude of post-orgasmic bliss, tossing them in the waste-bin and rolling onto my back.

When he comes back in, I smile and move over, and he lays down beside me, head on my shoulder, arm around my stomach.

"Mmmn," I say, and he presses a kiss to my chest.  We drift off, and sometime later the cats come in, Warden curling by my head, Pounce kneading the soft part of Anders' neck with a loud, rumbling purr and fierce joy.

He mutters, brushing the cat away, and I am foggily glad that it's not _my_ neck getting the claws for once.  Pounce comes back, as he always does, and I hear Anders muttering sleepy imprecations as the purr starts up again.

I crack open an eye to see strong fingers rubbing under Pounce's fluffy chin, and when he settles down, Wiggums at our feet, we finally fall asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final installment of this chapter of _A Light That Never Goes Out_. There will be more once I figure out what prompt I want to tackle next, but it might be a few days.
> 
> I admit that I have a teensy obsession for movie actors from the twenties through the sixties. There's something about black-and-white that just does it for me.
> 
> Johnny Weissmuller was an Olympic gold medalist and the definitive Tarzan, and a fine, fine example of a man:
> 
> http://images.allocine.fr/r_760_x/medias/nmedia/18/65/31/32/18880421.jpg
> 
> http://images.smh.com.au/2009/02/16/385162/cheetathechimp-420x0.jpg
> 
> http://www.societyofjohns.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/01/Weismueller-as-Tarzan.jpg
> 
> http://image.toutlecine.com/photos/t/a/r/tarzan-et-sa-compagne-34-02-g.jpg
> 
> http://i142.photobucket.com/albums/r99/pacojaz19/tarzan.jpg
> 
> And Slave!Charleton Heston in both Planet of the Apes and Ben Hur, as well as Michelangelo in The Agony and The Ecstasy has always been a huge favorite of mine:
> 
> http://media.novinky.cz/292/122928-original-rk7lo.jpg
> 
> http://charltonhestonworld2.homestead.com/files/ch-agony-chuckasmichelangelo.jpg
> 
> http://www.moviemarket.com/Photos/C301538_B76384.html
> 
> There's just something about a man who looks like he's built up a physique from a lifetime of hard work instead of hours at the gym that makes me go _hnnnnng_ and want to have his babies.


	6. Hand In Glove, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the start of the next chapter of _A Light That Never Goes Out_ , written in response to the following k!meme prompt:
> 
>  _M!Hawke (class makes no difference to me) and his LI go to the wedding of a friend outside of Kirkwall. They stay at an inn. Hawke splurges and they get a damn nice room._
> 
>  _After the wedding they go back to said room and fuck like rabbits on the bathroom floor. Looking for sex of the rough but fluffy variety._
> 
>  _Male LI preferred but not demanded._
> 
>  _#1 Bonus: Discreet over the clothes shenanigans during the reception.  
>  #2 Bonus: Holding on to the side of the tub for leverage. Rawr._
> 
> Bonuses will be filled, Rawr. :D

We settled into a routine over the next few weeks: I drove Anders to work on the days that I needed the car, otherwise he was out of the house by seven, leaving me behind to sleep in an extra hour or two, always waking up on his side, face buried in his pillow.  (It smells like him... what can I say?)

We'd taken care of all the little things- separating his cell from Nemis' account, getting him to open up his own bank account, forwarding his mail.  I'd been a bit shocked, truthfully, to see how much of his life Nemis had simply taken over.  He'd controlled all of Anders' money, put everything they'd bought in his own name- essentially he'd lived off of Anders while pretending to "take care of things."

Anders had no savings whatsoever- Nemis had paid their household bills with Anders' income, then used the rest of it to support his drug habit.  I'd put some money into his account to tide him over until he cut checks at the clinic at the end of the month- he'd insisted that he'd pay me back, stubbornly, although I'd tried to make him understand that it wasn't an issue.

I'd given him Dr. Arainai's number, and the therapy seemed to be helping, although Anders admitted the familiar accent had creeped him out at first.  But Zev is nothing like Nemis, and I'd experienced firsthand how good Zev is at his job.  If you're looking for someone who's completely nonjudgmental, open, a fantastic listener with a unique perspective and the ability to cut right through to the heart of any issue, Zev's your man.  

I'd been tempted to hit on him when I'd seen him after Mom and Dad's accident, but in the end I was a bit too shy, and, well, there was Anders, and while the whole doctor/patient thing sounds great in the porn industry, I imagine it's somewhat more awkward when you have a sudden burning need to discuss relationships.  (Do you get a second therapist to discuss the first therapist?)

Mabs scrambles out from underneath the coffee table as the door opened, tail wagging furiously as Anders comes through the door.  I say hi, or at least I think I do- I'm in the middle of a huge battle, defending Archangel from Omega's gangs, and it's Garrus, and-

I'm dodging, taking cover, shooting them from the railing before moving down the stairs; time passes, I come to the end of the mission, save and quit, turning to find Anders on the couch next to me, idly petting Wiggums.

"Hi," I say, leaning back to give him a kiss.  "How was work?"

He shrugs, looking down at Wiggums.  "Cat got hit by a car today- I couldn't save him."  He's not looking at me, voice steady, but everything in his posture screams defeat, sadness.

"Oh," I say, and scoot over, pulling his feet up, pulling off socks to rub his feet.  "You can't save them all, Anders.  It's not your fault- you and I both know you did everything you could."

He shrugs, pulling one of the couch cushions behind him, Wiggums settling comfortably into a new position on his chest.  He closes his eyes and we stay like that for a while, the weary warrior fighting the unending battle against death, time, and trauma, me feeling helpless, offering what comfort I can.

Eventually he shifts, sighing, to a sitting position, giving me a quick peck before rifling through the mail on the coffee table.  He separates it and I begin tackling my pile, noticing the large, square envelope, cream-colored, and its matching companion in his pile.  I take a look at the address-

"Wedding invitation," I say, opening it to see the autumnally-themed card announcing the impending nuptials between Aveline Vallen and Don Hendyr.  "They took their sweet time- the wedding's next weekend."  But then again, knowing Aveline, she'd already gotten all her RSVPs electronically, and the cards were simply a reminder.  Anders opens his, eyebrow quirking.

************************************************************************

"I didn't think Aveline liked me enough to want me at the wedding," he says, and I grimace.  Aveline has always been a bit- repressed, and the fact that a good Catholic boy was sleeping with a professor always irritated her back in college.  I think they'd had words when he'd initially refused to report Alaric, too.  He shows me the hand-written note on the back- sure enough, it's from Don, who'd joined our weekly poker games two years back.

 _Anders-  
You're coming.  
Don_

I laugh.  "That's more of a wedding _demand_ than an invitation," but he's smiling, and thank god for Don.

"I need to call about my tuxedo," I say, frowning.

"You're in the wedding?" Anders says.

"Groomsman," I answer with a sigh.  I'm actually closer to Aveline than Don, but she wanted all of us lined up according to traditional wedding protocol, and with as scary as she'd gotten about the whole thing, we'd simply shut up and nodded.

"So," Anders says, bumping my knee with his, "Does this mean I get to ogle you in formal wear all day?"

"You'll be in a suit too, but yes," I sigh.  I hate formal occasions, itchy, stiff clothing, awkward pleasantries and events that generally go on far, far too long, but for Aveline I'll suffer through it.

She and I had met through a grief support group in college, me, after Mom and Dad had died in the car crash, Aveline after losing her husband to cancer.  I'd been surprised to meet a college girl who was already married, much less a widow, but we'd become and remained friends through the years.  When she'd met Don on the force, it'd come as a surprise to all of us that outwardly capable and stoic, inwardly shy Aveline had finally managed the courage to ask him out, but I was inordinately proud of and happy for her.

We'd gotten drunk at the Hanged Man a few years ago and bemoaned our relative unrequited crushes.  "I can't imagine _you_ having trouble speaking your mind,"  I'd slurred.  

"It's just- fear," she'd answered, slumping.  "I know it's idiotic but- I can't get away from it.  What-" she'd hiccuped, "What about you and Anders?  It's just going to get worse and worse, you know- I see it every day.  Nemis is going to put him in the hospital again, or..." she'd trailed off.  "Why don't you _do_ something?"

"And what," I'd said, angrily, putting back a shot of tequila, "exactly, should I do, Aveline?  I already reported the bastard once, and he nearly cut me out of his life."

"But he doesn't _know_ ," she'd said, exasperated, pounding the scarred counter for emphasis, "You never told him how you feel."

"Look-" I'd said, then shrugged, defeated.  "We're not the best example, all right?  But you can do better, Avvy.  I know you can."

Isabela had come over from where she'd been setting up some intricate drink- something involving a tower of flaming shots that tumbled into a pitcher of beer.  She'd thrown together another Long Island Iced Tea for Av, with another little umbrella (Aveline tries to be sneaky, but we all know she secretly collects them), and then poured me another shot and patted me on the cheek before heading down to pull a pint for someone.

Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure that part of Aveline's seeming dislike for Anders is probably her being over-protective on my behalf.  She's in for a surprise this weekend.

"I'm always in a suit," Anders says, logically, bring me back to the present.

"True," I reply.  

"Do we need to-" he fumbles charmingly, "RSVP as each others' plus one, or something?"

I shrug.  "Av already knew I wasn't planning on bringing anyone, and Nemis wasn't welcome, so I think they're just expecting the two of us."

He nods.  "When are we coming back?"

I chewed my lip.  I'd just planned on being there for the rehearsal dinner the night before and then the next day- but we could make it a three-day trip, I could take him out to dinner-

"Do you want to spend the weekend?" I ask.  "I could get us a room, we could have dinner, see the aquarium..."  I trail off- gah, that sounds so _juvenile_ -

But he's smiling at me, and when he says "Sounds like fun," I feel like a million dollars.


	7. Hand In Glove, Part II

The next day I call Fifteen Beacon and make reservations, have the concierge get us tickets for the aquarium.  They reel off a package that includes milk, cookies, and a stuffed penguin, and when I express interest he asks if we're bringing a child with us.  I'm embarrassed to admit that we're not, but he simply continues on, asking for my credit card information and whether or not I need a car rental.  I reply in the negative- it's barely a three-hour drive there, and we'd spend just as much time going through security if we flew.  

After that I call the tux rental place- Av had gotten us a package deal, and I'd confirmed my measurements months ago, but better to be safe than sorry.  They confirm that they've got everything ready, and when Anders gets home I drag him out to go buy Aveline's wedding gift.   

Argento's was one of those businesses that had quietly popped up a few years ago, reputation spreading by word of mouth.  I'd never been there, myself, but Aveline had recommended it highly.

"What are you getting?" Anders asks, and as I find some on-street parking and feed the meter, I reply, "Aveline recommended this place- she and Don have been attending the wine tastings regularly.  I was thinking of seeing if they carry wine refrigerators."

"Swanky," Anders says from behind me as I eyeball the place.  The exterior is classy, the windows tinted so that I can barely see the inside.  I remember hearing something about wine and UV rays, so I suppose that's a mark of quality.

I walk up the concrete steps, noting the wrought-iron railing and awnings- whoever runs this place does a good job with curb appeal.  Tall, glazed earthen jars with exotic-looking crosshatch and spiral designs sport a collection of fragrant herbs.   _Nice._

As I push open the door, I'm surprised to see a pleasantly-lit, terra-cotta-ish interior, free-standing racks of wine on display like fine art, a long, black marble bar with comfortable-looking stools set up next to the cash register.  There are coolers around the periphery filled with bottled beer, colored glass shelving featuring a variety of spirits, beautiful bowls and vases displayed prominently around the area, and all I can think as I look around is that this is about as far as you can get from the typical, seedy wine-and-spirits shop.

"Welcome to Argento's!" a lovely redhead says as she stands up from where she's been stocking a shelf.  "I'm Varania."  She holds out her hand and I shake it.  

"Garrett Hawke," I say, "Quite a place you have here."

"Thank you," she says, pale skin coloring prettily, moving to shake hands with Anders.  "We do our best."

Anders introduces himself, giving her his most flirtatious smile, and I roll my eyes as she blushes.  "Was there anything in particular you were looking for?" she asks.

"A long-time friend of mine and patron here is getting married this weekend, and I was hoping you had a wine cellar or refrigerator or-" I'm starting to babble, hopelessly out of my element- I don't drink much these days, and when I do, it's usually hard liquor.  I'd have brought Isabela but she can't keep a secret for the life of her, and by the end of the day Aveline would know exactly what she was getting.   

The bell on the door jingles and four giggling older ladies come in.  "Varania!" one gushes, "Darling, I need your help- I'm planning a little soiree next weekend, and I _absolutely_ don't know what to serve-"

Varania looks at them, and then back at me apologetically.  "Hold on just a moment," she says, "Let me get my brother to help you," and scurries into the back.  

As I look around the shop, I notice a glass door leading to an outside seating area, an enclosed courtyard with a few round tables and chairs.   _Must be for the wine tastings, or events,_ I think, and as I look through the door I can't help but frown.  The courtyard is bare, the paving-stones cracked, the tables cheap and the whole area without decoration or charm.  The part of my brain that designs kicks into overdrive, and I'm suddenly planning-

"Do you have a pen?" I ask Anders absently.

He reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a pen, handing it to me with a quirked eyebrow.  I turn around and head to the register, where I remember seeing a stack of napkins with the Argento logo-  Taking one, I move back to the courtyard and start to sketch.  Anders comes to stand beside me, and although I know he's watching me, I don't mind, because they could put a planter right there, some more of that gorgeous pottery that's scattered around the shop-

When a voice says "Mr. Hawke?" I look up from my sketch to see that Varania has returned, a young man in tow.

I blink.  I've never seen two people who look less like siblings- except, yes, the eyes.  Where she's fair, he's dark; where her hair is flame-red, his is black as coal.  Her face is long and oval- his, like a triangle, pointed and stubborn.  But- yes, there's a similarity of noses, too.  

Most surprisingly, the young man sports what seem to be a series of intricate, interwoven white tattoos that wend their way from chin to throat, disappearing into the collar of his black button-up shirt, re-appearing on his arms where he's rolled up his sleeves to the elbow.  They're graceful and stunning against his dark skin, running in lines down his fingers, back up the palms of the hand he extends for me to shake.  I've never seen such extensive tattooing and I'm trying not to stare.

"Leto Argento," he says, and that _voice_ startles me out of any contemplation of his looks.  A low voice, not a rumbling bass but a pointed, articulate baritone.  His enunciation sounds almost European, at odds with the dark skin, slight tilt to the eyes, and raven-black hair that hint at Asian or Native American origins.  The faint lines at his brow contrast his otherwise youthful appearance, and I realize that he's not as young as I thought- easily close to thirty rather than the youthful twenty I'd first assumed.

From the top of his head to the tips of what look like Italian boots, this man is an enigma.

"Garrett Hawke," I say, and his gaze sharpens, examining me more closely.

"Hawk," he says, "An unusual last name.  Native?"

"H-a-w-k-e," I say, "With an 'e' on the end.  Originally British...  English...whatever-" I'm starting to babble again, and I fumble in my pocket for one of my new business cards, handing it to him.

A throat clears behind us and Argento's gaze flicks behind me.  He reaches out his hand and Anders steps forward to take it, looking oddly irritated.

"Ah," I say belatedly, "This is Anders Haugen, my boyfriend."  It just sort of slips out and I see Anders' face go slightly blank with surprise, and then they're shaking hands, and his expression has changed in a heartbeat from irritated to blank to- happy?

Argento introduces himself again to Anders, and as they let go Anders looks at me, and the glow of his eyes, the warm smile speak volumes.

Introductions aside Argento turns to me, all business.  "How can I be of assistance?"

"My good friend Aveline Vallen is getting married to Don Hendyr this weekend," and he nods.

"I'll be there, actually," he says, "Argento's is providing the table wines, champagne, and a full bar."

"You tend bar?" I say in surprise, and he smiles.  "Until I opened Argento's three years ago, yes."

"Huh," I say, and he picks up a nearby bottle of vodka, examines the label for a moment, then flips and catches it neatly before setting it back down with a smile.

I'm impressed and trying not to show it.  "Amazing place you have here," I say, "You don't usually find an atmosphere this pleasant in a store that sells alcohol."

He nods.  "We wanted to make a place where people wanted to have events, attend tastings, come back- not just a place to run in and out with cheap liquor in a plain paper bag."

"It works," I say, and as curiosity takes over, I add, "The pottery is very distinctive."

"That's Varania's work," he says, face softening slightly.  "Our mother was three-quarters Cherokee- she likes to use the traditional designs."

 _Ah, that's where the exotic look comes from._   

"Your courtyard could use some work, though," I say, and when he arches an eyebrow I shrug apologetically.  "I do landscape design for a living, I couldn't help but notice."  He looks again at my card, flipping it over.

"We've been thinking about having it redone," he says thoughtfully.  "What would you suggest?"

I hand him the napkin I've been sketching on.  "You could put in new paving stones like this, a few trees _here_ and _here_ -" I point- "Put a firepit here for autumn and winter events where you serve hot drinks, mulled wine, cider, what-have-you-"

We talk for a few more minutes, and when he tucks the napkin in his pocket I'm pretty sure he'll be calling.  Anders is frowning again.

"I assume you're looking for a wedding gift, then?" he says, and I pull myself back to the task at hand.

"Aveline told me that she and Don enjoy the wine tastings here, so I was hoping to get them a wine-cooler...thing, and whatever wines they like to fill it."

He nods.  "We don't carry them on-site, but I can order one.  How much are you looking to spend?"

"Can you recommend one?  I'd like to get them the best," I say, "I don't know much about these things."

Anders makes a sound behind me, faint but noticeable, and I realize that I've basically invited him to sell me whatever he likes at whatever price he thinks I'll pay.  But Aveline likes these folks, so-

"EuroCave is generally thought of as the best," he says, "but they can get expensive- the 209-bottle model with three temperature compartments can cost upwards of three to four thousand dollars."

I nod.  "Aveline's recommended you, so I'm going to assume you're not going to sell me something that'll disappoint her."

"You can't do any better than EuroCave," he says, and I'm not sure why but I believe him.

We spend another hour picking out wines- Anders browses around the shop while we plan to fill half of the cooler with Aveline's favorites.  She and Don'll have plenty of space to add onto their collection as they please.

When we're done I shake his hand.  Thanks again, Mr. Argento," I say, and he smiles.  "Call me Leto, please," he says, "and the pleasure was all mine."

"Leto," I say, "Like- the mother of Apollo and Artemis?"

"From Latin, actually," he says, ringing me up.  "Based on the name 'Leatus.'"

"An unusual name," I say, echoing his previous words, and he grins.  "Our father was Italian- it's easier than the name my mother gave me."

I wait, but he simply proceeds to put in the order and arrange for delivery of the wine cellar and wine to Aveline's, a very slight quirk at the edge of his mouth.

"Come on," I say, "You can't just leave it at that.  Now I _have_ to know."

He nods towards a sinuously curved vase, spiral designs reminiscent of his tattoos.  "Look on the bottom," he says, and I pick it up.

On the bottom is carved a delicate relief of a wolf, and written below-

" _Usti Waya_ ," he says, handing me my receipt and debit card.  "Cherokee for 'Little Wolf."

*******************************************************************************

When I leave Argento's, it's with my newly-purchased vase in hand, Anders walking behind me.  When we get in the car I notice the decidedly unhappy cast to his mouth.  "Something wrong?" I say.

"He's very striking," Anders replies, and for a moment I'm confused.

"What?"

"Argento- good-looking guy, wouldn't you say?"

I suddenly realize that he's _jealous_ , and I can't help the grin that spreads over my face.

"Are you _jealous_?" I say, barely holding back a laugh.

He glares at me.  "Mr. Italian-Native-American-knows-his-wines-deep-voice-crazy-tattoos certainly seemed to like _you_ ," he says, and I can't help it, I start to laugh.

"Anders," I wheeze, "I didn't pine after you for nearly seven years- to toss you over- for the first guy I meet," and I'm laughing in between words.

He crosses his arms.  "You bought his vase," he says, "And drew up a design for his courtyard.  For free.  And gave him your card."

As I regain control, I look at him and realize he's seriously bothered.  "Anders," I say, "I liked the vase.  And the sketch is all he gets for free.  If he wants me to take on the job, he'll have to pay just like anyone else.  With his kind of clientele, a job like that could lead to plenty of other commissions.  If I don't promote my business, I don't work."

Some of the tension leaves his shoulders, and I lean over.

"Besides," I say, lowering my voice, "I don't go for Italian-Native-Americans.  I seem to have a thing for gorgeous blondes with beautiful brown eyes."

"Oh," he says archly, "So any brown-eyed blonde will do?"

"Only the ones named Jędrzej," I answer, and he laughs as I murder his name.

"I guess we're not visiting Poland anytime soon then," he whispers right before I kiss him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argento's looks like this-  
> http://www.vagablond.com/images/2.jpg
> 
>  _Usti Waya_ is indeed Cherokee for "Little Wolf," and as you may have noticed I'm going with a mostly un-angsty Leto. Fenris has had a rough enough time in his canon incarnation- he still has a history here (those tattoos have a story, oh, yes) but since Anders has an extra helping of angst in this universe, the scales decree that Leto shall have less. Mostly because I'd just like to see Fenris without(most of) his hangups.
> 
> We're finally ready to head off to the wedding! :D


	8. Hand In Glove, Part III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's short- folks are requesting that I put it here since it's easier to read. Still writing more!

The rest of the week flies by in a flurry of work. Anders spends extra time at the clinic to make up for the half-day he’s taking on Friday, and I send off the last of the concept sketches to Vael for approval. Varania Argento calls mid-week and asks me to draw up a formal plan for the courtyard, and I return to the store and walk around the area with her for an hour, discussing features that we’d both like to see included. I give her brother a distracted wave on the way out- my mind is in work mode, and he’s packing up a van with their logo on the side- no doubt a setup for the wedding.

I meet with my lawyer and quietly update my will to include a bequest to Aveline and Donnic, and add instructions that on the birth of a child, she is to open a 529 plan immediately and add a specified yearly amount, to be managed with my financial advisor. Anders is already listed as a beneficiary, although the bulk of my assets are already set to be split with Beth and Carver in the event of my death.

Some folks might find this sort of thing morbid, but after we lost Mom and Dad, I don’t take anything for granted. Better to make sure the people I love are protected while I’m around to do it.

Suddenly it’s Friday afternoon, and Anders and I are packing our suitcases in the car, saying goodbye to Merrill who’s house and pet-sitting for the weekend. She’s doing exceptionally well at the clinic, Anders grudgingly admits.

When I ask Merrill about it, she giggles. “I think Mrs. Badcrumble just brings Fluffy in as an excuse to see Anders,” she whispers to me. “She likes looking at his rear.”

I raise an eyebrow as I watch him saunter out the door, coat in hand. “It _is_ a nice rear,” I stage-whisper back, and she snickers. “Thanks a bunch, Merrill,” I say, and hand her a hundred. She tries to give it back, demurring that it’s too much, but I’m out the door and in the car before she can try again.

One of my best friends is getting married tomorrow, and I’m feeling strangely maudlin. I cue up the country playlist for the first part of the drive, and although Anders makes a face, halfway through the drive his hand comes to rest on my thigh as we listen to Rascal Flatts sing about broken roads. I look over and see his eyes closed, half-napping, his thumb stroking my thigh in time with the music.

We stop at two for lunch, then we switch and I let Anders drive the rest of the way. I throw the rock playlist on and we sing along, badly, to the Smiths, the Pixies, and Siouxsie and the Banshees among others.

I love watching him drive, even if it is my Baby. There’s something about seeing him focused on the road, the little glances he gives me from time to time- I get the same feeling when I bring the pets in to the clinic and he examines them, efficient, knowledgeable, capable.

“What?” he says, catching me watching.

“Just admiring the view,” I leer, and he laughs.

“You sound like Zev,” he says, and I grin.

I give him directions as we get into Boston proper, and when we pull in I see his look of surprise. When the valet comes to take the car, he gives me a Look.

“Relax,” I grin, “Let me spoil us a bit.”

He follows me into the lobby where we check in, the valet following with our bags on a cart. We’re on the third floor, and as the elevator door closes behind us, he turns and looks at me.

“What’s all this?” he says, and he sounds irritated.

“It’s my favorite hotel in Boston,” I say, “Great art. Very classy.”

“We could have stayed at a Ramada,” he says, grouching.

“But Ramadas don’t have Italian marble bathrooms,” I reply, “And I have a thing for Italian marble.” I put a hand on my forehead and sigh dramatically. “I know it’s a hardship, but I’m sure you’ll manage to suffer through this weekend, if only for me.”

He snorts and shakes his head, finally acquiescing.

“Besides,” I say, “How can you _not_ love a place with a steakhouse named “Mooo?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rascal Flatts- God Bless the Broken Road:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kkWGwY5nq7A
> 
> Fifteen Beacon is a real hotel, with real Italian marble bathrooms, and it is swanky. And they really do offer stuffed penguins, cookies and milk, and have a restaurant named “Mooo.”  
> http://www.xvbeacon.com/photo-gallery/index.cfm


	9. Hand In Glove, Part 3.5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the other half of the previous update.
> 
> Smut smut smut smutty smut. Smut smut smut. :D

When I unlock the room, he walks in, letting out a low whistle. I’d gotten us a corner studio suite, and I take a moment to appreciate the clean lines and colors, the light filtering through the soft white curtains, the gas fireplace that had been turned on to herald our arrival, and the cookies, milk, and stuffed penguin that are sitting on the desk.

“Here,” I say, and hand him the stuffed penguin. “Have a penguin.”

He takes it, looks at it for a moment. “You got me a penguin?”

I shrug and grab a cookie- gooey and warm. Man, these guys know how to time things. They must have heated up the plate while we were checking in.

He sets the penguin down gently as I pop the rest of the cookie in my mouth, and leans in. “You’ve got something there,” he says, and when I swallow, he licks at the corner of my mouth. “Mmm,” he says, and a moment later he’s kissing me, the taste of the cookie making the kiss molten, chocolate, and the ache in my heart from a different sweetness altogether.

I clutch at his coat, heart beating double-time, and when the knock on the door heralds the arrival of our luggage, he pulls away reluctantly.

The bellhop hands me our bags and I give him five as a tip, handing the suitcases to Anders.

When the door closes a second time, I turn to find him moving the suitcases out of the way, and I pull him up- I need his mouth like I need air. He makes a surprised sound, but in the next moment he’s pulling me towards the bed, and we sprawl on it, soft and comfortable as he straddles me, hands in my hair, and _god_ , his mouth-

One of us whimpers, and I’m pretty sure it’s me, but I don’t care- I’m rucking up his shirt, popping a few buttons off in my haste- I need to touch him, need to have my fingers on his skin, _now_.

He sits up and slips off the coat, fingers rushing to undo his buttons, and I pull the fabric of my t-shirt over my head, throwing it to the side.

“Mmm,” he says, shirt unbuttoned but still on, and _damn_ he’s so fucking sexy I can’t catch my breath.

His eyes are dark and serious, and he runs his hands up my chest, nails scraping, and I can’t stop the small sound that escapes me, skin reddening under his touch- oh, god, so good.

“Mine,” he breathes, and I nod.

“Yours,” I say, “always, yours-“ he bends down, licking my collarbone, then sucking at the base of my neck, _hard_ , and I moan, head lolling back as he marks me, claims me.

He gets up and fumbles in his suitcase for the lube, and I pull off the rest of my clothes- I’m not sure why he’s acting this way, but I _like_ it.

He turns back to me, tossing the lube on the bed, then taking off his pants. When he moves to take off that sexy shirt, I make a small sound, and his head snaps up to look at me.

“Leave it on,” I say, and he does, beautifully naked except for that blue button-up shirt, open and showcasing the paleness of his skin, the pink of his nipples, the red-gold of the hair on his chest and trailing down to his stiff cock.

“Test results came in the mail yesterday- all clear,” he says, and my eyes widen as I realize what he means.

He’d insisted that we use condoms until the test results came back showing that he was clean and clear- he and Nemis hadn’t been intimate for months, but he’d been afraid of what the bastard might have picked up with his drug use, what he might pass to me if we weren’t careful.

He’d gotten a clean bill of health yesterday.

“Thank god,” I say, and in the next moment he’s back on me, bare skin warm, teeth scraping over my nipple, and he’s a little rougher than usual, and all I can do is bury my hands in his hair and beg for more as he proceeds to mark me, again and again.

When he takes my cock in his mouth, he’s careful with his teeth but relentless, the soft, smooth glide of his lips, the suction, so good, and when he takes me to the hilt, I buck, trying to warn him, but he just holds on, sucking, swallowing, and I come, hard, in his throat.

When the last aftershocks of orgasm fade, he moves up to kiss me, saying against my mouth, “Turn over.”

I turn over.

He uncaps the lube, slicking up his cock, and when he pushes inside, it burns, just a little, until the head of his cock clears and I can feel every inch as he moves.

“Mine,” he growls in my ear, and when he starts to fuck me into the bed, hard, good, the slap of flesh on flesh, I clutch the bedcovers and push back against him. A few more thrusts and he comes, moaning, and collapses on me.

After a minute he pulls me onto my side, still nestled up against him, and says in my ear, “You ok?” He sounds a little worried.

“God yes,” I say, “That was fantastic,” and his arm tightens around me, hugging me.


	10. Hand In Glove, Part IV

We take a quick shower and get dressed- it’s nearly five and the rehearsal starts at six. As Anders unpacks our bags I give Aveline a call.

“Hey Av, it’s Garrett,” I say, “We’re checked in and will be heading over in a bit.”

The Theirin family has a huge estate, practically a castle, and they’d hired me to redesign the grounds a couple years ago. Everyone had been happy with the result, and when Aveline and Don had announced their impending nuptials Alistair and Elissa had volunteered to host the wedding. With the leaves just turning, it was going to be spectacular.

Aveline seems to be juggling the phone- I keep hearing a rushed, frantic conversation going on in the background.

“Sorry-“ she says, sounding distracted. “Got a little crisis going on here-NO I WILL NOT TAKE ANYONE OUT-“ she bellows, and I wince, jerking the phone away from my ear. “See you soon.” She hangs up the phone before I can inquire further.

“Problems?” Anders says, towel wrapped around his hips as he walks into the bathroom.

“I don’t know,” I sigh, following him, “Aveline’s gone crazy with the whole wedding thing.”

I trim my beard and clean up the stubble on my neck while he shaves, and once I’m done I change into a clean pair of slacks and a decent shirt- fancy stuff for me but these wedding things tend to err on the side of formal.

I check in on Anders and find him toweling off stray bits of shaving cream, freshly shaven, and I pull him in for a kiss, enjoying the feel of his smooth cheeks.

“Hurry up,” I say, and when he smirks at me I grab his towel and tug.

 _Win-win_ , I think as I watch him grin, then saunter out of the bathroom bare-assed.

I call and have the valet pull Baby around, and ten minutes later we’re on the road, the familiar Boston streets a nostalgic reminder of my childhood. We’d visited my grandparents on holidays, and they’d loved to take us around town, out to dinner, shopping. As kids we’d loved it- as an adult I’d realized they were throwing it back in Mom’s face, _look what you gave up to marry a mechanic_ , her standing by, tight-lipped while they’d showered us with expensive gifts.

But it hadn’t ever really mattered, because when we got home Dad was there, with hugs and laughter and his ability to constantly fix things, hands certain and capable when fixing a broken doll, the dishwasher, smoothing away the frown lines on Mom’s face before he pulled her onto his lap and made her squeal like a girl, peppering her with kisses.

I suppose we’re alike in that way- we never stop trying to fix things, Dad and I.

“You ok?” Anders says again, and I realize I’ve been quiet.

“Just thinking about my family,” I say, waiting for the stoplight to turn green.

“Are Beth and Carver coming to the wedding?” he says, and I grimace slightly.

“Beth’s a bridesmaid. Carver’s still in Afghanistan,” I say, and he nods. Stubborn, stupid Carver had made it through college, had majored in criminal justice and been doing a decent job of it. But he’d always been argumentative, and when Grandma had kept pressing him to _settle down, find a job and a nice girl, why can’t you be more like your sister, why can’t you be more like your brother-_

One day he’d simply snapped, enlisted in the army in the middle of a fucking war, angry at the world and all of us as he’d been since the day he was born. Av had quietly discouraged him from becoming a police officer, thinking that he was too young, too brash, too impulsive. He’d proven her right when he’d jumped into the army. He’d written a few terse letters to Beth and none at all to me- she still called me and read them to me over the phone anyway, Beth the peacemaker.

When we pull up the gate of the Theirin estate, I buzz the intercom and announce us, and moments later we’re admitted. I park Baby next to the other vehicles and we get out, heading to the door. Moments later I have my hands full as my baby sister launches herself at me, hugging me tight. I hug her back and lay a smacking kiss on her cheek.

“Heya, Sunshine,” I say, and she wrinkles her nose at me, letting me go.

************************************************************************

“Don’t ‘heya’ me, Big Brother,” she says, poking me in the chest, “you haven’t come to visit me in four months!”

“Don’t you have-“ I wave my hands- “Tests and things?” She makes a disparaging sound and I know it’s a poor excuse. “Well, I’m here now,” I say, “And I promise we’ll come visit you in a few weeks, okay?”

“We?” she says, and her attention shifts to Anders, then whips back to me, and she’s staring at my neck, and I realize the bite mark is still visible-

She launches herself at Anders, and he catches her as she squees in his ear. “About time, you moron!” she says, laughing, and he reddens, smiling and hugging her.

“Moron?” he pouts, and she kisses him on the cheek.

“Utter, totally oblivious moron,” she confirms, then pulls us inside.

We walk through the estate, Beth chattering about nursing school, Anders chiming in with anecdotes about vet school, and I’m content simply to listen to them.

Once we get to the french doors that lead to the back of the estate, we spy everyone milling around. Don has his arm around Av’s waist, steady, dependable and deadpan Don- you’d never know it to look at him but he’s a wicked card player with an equally wicked sense of humor.

Alistair walks over and I smile- he’s one of my oldest friends, one of the few kids my grandparents had _encouraged_ us to play with and who’d never turned his nose up at us, despite the fact that we were ‘the mechanic’s kids.’

“Garrett,” he grins, pulling me into a bear hug, and I let out an _oof_ because Al’s always been unaware of his strength, like a big puppy, blundering into one mess or another, getting out of it with his big brown eyes. Rather like Anders, actually.

“Must- breathe-“ I exaggerate, thumping him on the back, and he lets go, stepping back to let Elissa peck me on the cheek.

“Nice to see you again,” she says, warmly.

My cousin Daylen is standing off to the side, and when he sees me we grin at each other and bump fists. Day and I had been compared a lot as kids, being the same age, and when we’d gone to Yale together we’d gotten into more than our fair share of trouble.

We make our way over to Aveline, who’s on the phone, looking distressed, and when she spots me, she hangs up the phone.

“Fuck,” she says, and I blink.

“Nice to see you too,” I say, and Don chokes back a laugh.

“Don’t you _dare_ -“ she says, turning to point a finger at him, and he pulls his expression into a modicum of seriousness.

“Problem?” I ask.

“Brenna was in a car accident,” she says, running a hand through her hair in exasperation. “She broke two ribs and her hip, and won’t be out of the hospital for days.”

“Wasn’t she supposed to be a bridesmaid?” I say, and she nods before cursing again.

“If you want, I could just watch the wedding,” I offer, and she shakes her head vehemently.

“You don’t understand,” she says. “The seating is for four bridesmaids and four groomsmen. The music is timed for four couples. We have to have four or it’ll go all _wrong_ -” She’s starting to yell.

I’m a bit scared, I’ll admit it. “Can we get someone else, maybe?” I offer, and she huffs. “Those dresses were made-to-order- we can’t have another one fitted by tomorrow.”

*********************************************************************

“So don’t,” comes a sultry voice from behind us, and I turn to see that Isabela’s arrived, pulling Anders down for a kiss that’s got a bit more tongue than I’m comfortable with, but it’s Isabela.

“Sweet thing,” she says, patting him on the cheek, and he looks a bit dazed.

“Isabela-“ Aveline’s voice is irritated, “I can’t just have Garrett walk down the aisle by himself. Plus the pictures will be all skewed-“

Isabela shrugs. “So get Anders a tux and put him in the wedding.”

Anders turns to look at her, mouth open to protest-

“I like it,” Don says, and we all turn to look at him. “You’ve always been close to Garrett, love,” he says to Aveline, “And Anders is a friend of mine. We can get another tux no problem.”

Anders is still trying to protest when Aveline nods. “Fine.” She turns to Anders and says, “Where are you staying? I can give you directions to the tux shop.”

“We’re at Fifteen Beacon,” I say, and Aveline turns to look at me. “Both of you?” she says, and I see the moment the light-bulb goes off. “Together?” I give her a little grin, _aw, shucks, ma’am_ , and she lets out a little scream, hugging me.

She turns to Anders and hits him on the shoulder, hard. “About time, you idiot,” she says, but she’s smiling, and from the looks of relief, it’s the first time she’s smiled today.

Anders is rubbing his shoulder. “Did everyone know but me?” he says, and laughter breaks out.

“Pretty much,” Aveline says, but she’s smiling, and when the priest arrives, she begins to direct us with all of the military precision and delicacy of a drill instructor.

Isabela is the maid of honor, and takes her place next to Aveline on the raised dais, grinning at Don. Trace, an older red-haired man from the force is his best man, and next to him comes Anders, then Alistair, and lastly Day.

I’m standing next to Isabela, and next to me is Elissa, then Beth on the end. The priest walks us through the ceremony, all the usual cues and whatnot, and then Aveline has us file down in twos after her and Don, timing our steps.

I have to admit that I get a bit of a flutter in my stomach when I take Anders’ arm and walk down the aisle.


	11. Hand In Glove, Part V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Garrett gets reflective.

After we’ve run through the rehearsal enough times that Av is satisfied, I step to the side and call the tux place. I nod Anders over and have him give his measurements to the clerk, and thank god they have a tux in his size. I arrange for us to pick it up tomorrow, with mine, and I tell them to charge it to my card. Anders frowns again- I’m not sure what’s going on, but we can deal with that after this weekend.

The priest concludes the rehearsal with a prayer- I simply stay silent, while Av, Don, Anders, Thrace and a few others repeat ‘Amen.’ I catch Anders quietly making the sign of the cross- I’ll never understand how he can retain his faith when it condemns so much of who we are. But it’s not for me to understand, only accept, and if it brings him comfort, well, that’s what faith is for, right?

At least the priest hasn’t been giving us any dirty looks. Av and Don are both Catholic- Av’s family was French-Canadian and apparently quite devout. Alistair and Elissa have never made an issue of it either way, and us Hawke-Amells round out the heathens.

Alistair and Elissa disappear inside, and when they come back out it’s with plates of uncooked steak, baked potatoes wrapped in foil, and skewers of vegetables, which they proceed to haul over to a spot on the deck where they’ve got a grill ready- apparently we’re barbequing tonight.

“Come get something to drink,” Elissa calls, and I grab a soda from the cooler sitting to the side.

Alistair is wearing one of those aprons that says ‘Kiss the Cook-“ I’m a little scared, actually, because Al is the kind of guy who puts metal in the microwave and plastic in the oven. Thrace and Don have apparently taken it upon themselves to mentor him through the grilling, so I settle into a chair and hope for the best.

“So-“ Isabela says, leaning forward and putting a hand on my knee- “You’ve been holding out, Garrett. Give Mama Isabela all the juicy gossip, now.”

I widen my eyes in mock innocence. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I reply, trying to hold the grin in. Oh, this is far too much fun.

She scowls until Anders pulls up a chair next to me, taking a sip of the imported beer he’s grabbed- ugh. Beer is one of those tastes I’ve never managed to acquire.

“I kiss that mouth,” I complain, and he smirks at me.

“It’s good,” he says, waggling the bottle at me. “Try it?”

I grimace. “Didn’t we establish in college that trying something over and over does _not_ make it better?”

He gives me a wicked smile, and I have a feeling that he’s got something planned. “Fine,” I sigh, and lean forward, expecting him to hand me the bottle.

“Nf!” is all I get out when he pulls me into a kiss, and suddenly I’m tasting him, the alcohol earthy, faintly like roasted bread, yeast and burnt cream, and when I end the kiss it takes me a moment to open my eyes.

“Well?” he says, smiling, and I laugh as I realize we’re getting catcalls from our friends.

“Not bad,” I admit, and he hands me the bottle. I take a drink and wrinkle my nose. “I think I liked it the other way better.”

Isabela laughs and snags the bottle from me. “Heathen,” she mock-scolds, “That’s no way to talk about a fine beer.”

As she seems to have appropriated it, Anders pouts before getting up to get another, Av and Beth pulling up chairs.

“So?” Aveline says, and I roll my eyes.

“Isn’t this supposed to be about you and Don?” I say, pride and embarrassment mingling. I don’t know how much of everything that went on with Nemis is mine to reveal, and it’s more than a little awkward in front of my baby sister.

Av scoffs. “I heard about the escort to get his stuff out,” she says, “But I didn’t realize you two had become an item. Dish!” she demands, as Anders is sitting back down.

I look over at him for help- his expression is oddly inscrutable, and I don’t know what to say. “Ask Anders,” I say, and he gives me a look. “What? There _are_ two of us here,” I say, “You’re just as capable of filling people in as I am.”

He sits forward, toying with the bottle, elbows resting on his knees as he thinks. “Nemis got rough and I decided I’d had enough,” he says, looking at the bottle. “He threatened me and I got out, called Garrett at some ungodly hour of the morning.” He gives me a little half-smile, and I suddenly realize that talking about this is hard for him.

“He came and got me, we-“ he coughs- “talked, and he offered me a place to stay.”

“And?” Isabela prompts.

“And we _talked_ ,” I say, firmly, “And now we’re seeing each other.”

“No undying protestations of love? No dramatic reveal of unrequited affection?” she prods, and Anders rolls his eyes.

“Just a few protestations,” I say facetiously, “I’m no good at drama.”

Anders snickers. “I’ve yet to hear you protest anything,” he says with a leer, to groans and chuckles from the peanut gallery.

The conversation degenerates into random conversation about the wedding, Beth prompts Aveline for a verbal recounting of her and Don’s first date, Elissa joins us and we chitchat about our day jobs.

The barbequers are having an intense discussion, and finally Thrace nods, and turning to us, says, “Anyone who likes a rare steak, come and get it now.”

Isabela and I get up and grab plates, summarily laden down with steak, a baked potato, a skewer of veggies and a roll from the basket Elissa’s brought out.

In relatively short order the rest of the steaks are done, everyone’s served, and it’s relatively quiet, dusk beginning to approach as we eat.

After dinner Al and Elissa relocate everyone to the firepit, and as darkness falls we settle around the fire with skewers, marshmellows, bars of chocolate and boxes of graham crackers. We toast each other with s’mores, Elissa plucking quiet tunes on her guitar, eventually handing it to Anders who manages a decent rendition of ‘Stairway to Heaven.’

He looks beautiful in the firelight, the pop and crackle of the wood an accompaniment to the careful movements of his fingers, head bent as he concentrates.

Aveline is sitting on a blanket in front of Don’s chair, and she’s relaxed and smiling, putting together s’mores while her husband-to-be gives her a shoulder rub.

Izzy and Beth are watching everyone and giggling together, whispering conversation that I’m glad I can’t hear.

Day and Thrace are chatting companionably and Al and I sit back, catching up on family news; I fill him in on Carver’s last letter to Beth, trying not to wish that my bratty little brother was here with the rest of us.

Other than that, it’s a real nice night for an evening, as Av would say, and when we finally say goodnight and head back to the hotel, smelling faintly of wood smoke and giddy on friendship, we’re both smiling.

One of my best friends is getting married tomorrow- she’s becoming a wife, again. She’ll never be just “my friend Aveline” again- now she’ll be Aveline Vallen-Hendyr, Don’s wife, maybe the mother of his children, head of her department at the police station and _adult_. Like Alistair, she’s moved into a different stage of life, so quietly, gradually, and yet here we are.

In all honesty none of us are really kids anymore, haven’t been for years. It’s hard not to mourn the loss, and yet, when I curl up next to Anders in the soft hotel bed, wrapping my arm around him and pressing a kiss to his shoulder as we drift off, I’m simply happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Weddings are always a bit sentimental for me. Especially if you're not in the "married and moving into mid-life" bracket, it can seem like your friends suddenly have a whole host of concerns and dreams that you don't. I have several really good friends from college who are married with multiple kids, and there's a bit of distance that comes when you simply don't share that part of their life. But, like Garrett, you eventually realize that you're not exactly losing your friend- they're just gaining another layer of complexity, like a pearl being built. The crazy, goofy friend is still in there. :D


	12. Hand In Glove, Part VI

I vaguely hear my cell phone alarm go off the next morning, but before I can fumble around for it I feel weight on the bed shifting, an arm going around me, and all is blessedly quiet moments later. I’m thinking vaguely _must get up something what alarm_ when an arm comes around me, a warm body at my back snuggling up.

“Nuh?” is the best I can manage.

Fingers stroke with the lightest pressure on my arm, and I turn around and struggle to open my eyes.

Anders is awake, laying on one arm, and he’s smiling at me.

“Morning,” he says, and suddenly it is. A good one, even.

“Whuhtimeizit?” I say, and he correctly interprets my sleepspeak.

“Nine,” he says, and I suddenly remember that today is Aveline’s wedding.

I sit up and rub my face. Need to get tuxes, need to go, wedding at one. First breakfast, coffee.

Coffee.

I grab the phone and dial muzzily until I get the front desk. “Room 310- can we get breakfast, please?” They reply affirmatively and I’m glad they had a breakfast package that I can tack on without having to actually _order_ anything, because coffee.

I _need_ coffee.

“Morning,” I manage, blinking sleep out of my eyes.

Anders snickers at me and I whack him with a pillow. “Shaddup,” I say, “Need coffee.”

He gets up, stretches, and I muzzily admire the play of muscles, skin milky and smooth in the morning light coming gently through the drawn curtains.

We pull on some clothes so as not to shock the help, and by the time breakfast arrives I’m almost awake. I hand the attendant a five and Anders, mercifully, takes charge of the food.

“Fancy,” he says, making eyes at the fresh fruit, coffee, and pastries.

“Coffee,” I beg, and he pours me a cup, doctoring it with my usual overdose of sugar and cream before handing it to me.

“I _love_ you,” I say with feeling, and he laughs.

“Are you talking to me, or the coffee?” he says, eyebrow crooked.

“Both,” I say, blissfully inhaling caffeinated goodness.

Once I’ve had a few cups and we’ve had breakfast, I finally feel awake and ready to face the day. We hop in the shower, get dressed, and by ten we’re out the door. Ever the organized one, Anders has the card for Av and Don, signed by both of us- I printed out and stuck a picture of the wine fridge in with it. Anders gave it a face and a mustache, along with a word bubble saying ‘Waiting for you at home!’ He wanted to draw a cat, too, but I didn’t want them to think a cat came with the fridge.

We head to the the tux shop, where the man behind the register scowls and the tailor fawns over Anders.

“Aren’t you _smashing_ ,” he says, double-checking Anders’ measurements. “Hold on, hold on,” he mutters, and we end up spending another half-hour in the shop while he adjusts the hem on the pants. “Garbage,” he mutters. “Can’t have you going out like that- give me a bad name-“

The man behind the counter shakes his head and mutters something uncomplimentary under his breath- whether he’s cursing us or the tailor, I’m not sure, but at least it’s still early. We finally get out of there, tuxes safely ensconced in their plastic sheeting, and drive on over to the Theirin estate.

The grounds are buzzing with activity as Elissa makes last-minute adjustments to the chairs and dais, setting up a mic and god knows what else. The woman is an organizational marvel, taking charge of and directing people back and forth with both tact and expediency.

I see Leto setting up near the reception area, and I have to admit, I’m impressed. He’s got some kind of modular setup, not the usual cloth-covered table but an actual _bar_ setup, with a few stools and some portable shelving where he’s arranging a variety of liquors. He sees us and nods briefly, still unpacking.

Elissa directs us to the groom’s suite- technically I’m with the bride’s party, but they’re probably sitting around in their underwear doing makeup and girly things that I’m just not comfortable with.

Don gives us a wave as we come through the doors- he’s looking a tad bit green.

“You ok?” I say, setting down tux and shoes, pulling off that damned plastic.

“I’m getting married,” he says, unsteadily. “To the most wonderful woman in the world.”

I pat him on the back. “Did you eat anything this morning?” Anders asks.

“Can’t,” he replies, agonized. “I- might throw up.”

“If you don’t eat something, you’ll probably faint right in the middle of your vows,” Anders replies.

Trace is there a moment later with a breakfast bar- Don chokes it down with some water, hands shaking. I’ll never understand why people get so terrified before their weddings- if it were me I’d be laughing all the way to the altar. Of course, until a few years ago I never thought I’d actually, legally be _able_ to marry, but luckily for me Connecticut is one of the few states thus far that’s legalized gay marriage.

Not that I expect it to come up anytime soon, but it’s nice to have the option.

As we’re getting dressed, Don gets up and starts fumbling with some boxes. “Here,” he says, and hands me one. I open it to find a pair of cufflinks with a five-speed gearshift engraved on them, and I can’t help but grin.

Anders gets an artistic pair made of red squares with lines of silver running down them, and as we get our shirts buttoned and cufflinks put on Trace, Alistair and Day are presented with theirs as well.

We’d originally been slated to wear black and brown- since everything had been reshuffled, the tux shop had given me a replacement vest and tie in red, the color Brenna had planned to wear. Apparently the rest of the ladies were outfitted in different color dresses a la the autumn theme.

Anders looks amazing, and for the moment all I can do is stare- Jesus, but the man wears anything and nothing with equal grace.

I suddenly realize he’s staring rather hard back at me.

“What?” I say.

He just shakes his head, sucking in a breath.

“If you two are done admiring each other?” Day smirks, and I roll my eyes at him.

Don walks over with a small box in hand. “Could you go give Av this for me? It belonged to my mother,” he says, faintly.

The wedding’s due to start in a half hour, so I suppose by now it should be safe to visit. I take the box in hand and pat him on the back, again; he looks strangely terrified for a man who’s getting married to the woman he’s been seeing for over three years.

I make my way to the bridal suite and knock gingerly- “Come in,” Av’s voice rings out confidently from the other side, and I push the door open just enough to stick my head in.

“Decent?” I confirm, just in case.

“Garrett,” she grins, standing up, and-

“ _Wow_.” I don’t know what else to say, really- she is resplendent, beautiful, hair down in a style reminiscent of the forties, dress all ivory folds with flowers over one shoulder.

She grins, totally at ease. “Didn’t think I could dress up, hm?”

“Well, I have to admit, I was half-expecting you to have your holster on,” I tease.

“Who says I don’t?” she quips, and I groan.

‘Bela looks amazing in gold, Beth is in orange, and Elissa’s wearing green. We’re a veritable panoply of fall colors, but it works, and they walk over, giggling. Beth gives me an approving look and a smooch on the cheek.

“Did they have to tie you down to get you in that?” she says, snarkily, and I mock-glare in retaliation. “He hates formal stuff,” she giggles to Elissa.

“This is from your extraordinarily nervous groom,” I say, handing her the box. “He said it was his mother’s,” I add, watching her face soften. The girls crowd around and _oooh_ when she opens it up, revealing a delicate silver brooch, antique-looking, in the shape of a marigold.

“A marigold,” she says, quietly, with a small, private smile before pinning it to her dress.

Elissa checks her cell. “Ready to go?” she says, and suddenly, without warning, it’s time.

We take our places, and when the violinist and guitarist start on an instrumental version of the Smashing Pumpkins’ “Tonight, Tonight,” Beth and Day walk down together, followed by Al and Elissa. Anders and I are next, and as I take his arm and we walk down the aisle, we hear a very slight murmur from the mostly Catholic crowd.

 

But this is Av and Don’s day, and I’m not going to dwell on it. ‘Bela and Trace are next, and finally, Don walks down the aisle with his grandmother, a tiny, spry woman. He escorts her to the front row on his side, then takes his place next to Trace. He’s smiling, but his eyes are wide and I see Trace put out an arm to steady him.

And then Av’s walking down the aisle, solo, the audience is standing, and I look over and see Don trembling like a leaf. But he’s grinning like a madman, and Av’s smiling back.

The rest of the ceremony is a blur of prayer, kneeling, standing, until they’re saying their vows, Trace steady as a rock with the rings. There are no tears on this day, no quavering voices, and surprisingly, no fainting grooms.

Av gets red lipstick on Don, and laughing, wipes it off as the priest presents them, Mr. and Mrs. Hendyr, and amidst the cheers and music, we walk back down the aisle in formation and into the house.

Beth and Alistair are both slightly teary-eyed, but hankerchiefs are produced, and while the guests filter over to the bar and reception area, we head to the garden for pictures.

Anders nudges me on the arm as I pull at the damned collar. “Stop it,” he scolds.

“I hate these damned things,” I mutter.

“But you look great,” he says with a grin, and as the photographer is posing Av and Don I feel a hand slide over my ass.

“Anders!” I hiss. “Knock it off. You’re not Isabela.”

“Thank God,” he says with mock piety. “I’d never have a chance with you if I was.”

The bride’s party is up next, and the photographer surrounds me with women like a sultan with his harem. We grin, muscles in our cheeks getting sore as he takes picture after picture. Next is the groom’s party, and then the whole group, then the individual bridesmaid/groomsman pairs, and _god_ , will this torture never end-

Av and Don insist that Anders and I take pics together, Isabela and Beth cooing as we hold hands and smirk at each other.

“Five bucks for a kiss!” Isabela calls out, holding up a folded bill, and I wonder for a moment where the _hell_ she was keeping it, and why-

In the next minute I have my hands full. “Mmnf!” is all I get out before Anders decides to earn every cent.

I vaguely hear the photographer clicking away, and try to keep the kiss PG instead of R.

When he lets me go, we’re both breathing a little fast, and as the photog moves to the reception area, Isabela hands Anders the five with a grin. “Anytime you want to repeat that,” she purrs, “let me know.”

Mercifully, we’re done with pictures except for reception stuff, cake cutting and all that. Day escorts ‘Bela away, talking smoothly, and I remember vaguely that they dated, or something at one point. Knowing ‘Bela, it was probably less ‘date’ and more ‘or something.’ The rest of the group follows, and Anders and I are left in the garden.

“Hello, handsome,” he says, and when he pulls me into another kiss, I let him. If hands wander a bit, well, we’re in the garden, it’s quiet and calm, the smell of autumn leaves and the feel of his mouth making me dizzy.

“We should go eat,” I say when he’s breathless, forehead pressed to mine.

Clothing straightened, I offer him my arm, and with a quirk of his mouth, he takes it. “Ready to go horrify old Catholic ladies?” he says, and I can’t help but laugh.

 

Aveline gives us a pointed stare as we join the wedding party in shaking hands and greeting guests- I’ve never understood the point, and I don’t know half of the people here, but I shake hands and mumble pleasantries. Contrary to his prediction, the little old ladies are _flocking_ around Anders, drawn in by his lazy smile and effortless charm. I give one a dirty look as she pinches his bum- she cackles and in the next moment I yelp as she pinches _mine_.

“Plenty of me to go around,” she whispers conspiratorially, and I hope my abject horror isn’t obvious on my face.

Everyone is gathered around for the ubiquitous bouquet and garter tossing- Isabela steps quickly back from the group of women, and Anders and I likewise absent ourselves from the garter toss. A blushing sixteen year-old catches the bouquet- Trace’s daughter, Olivia. Day catches the garter and twirls it around his finger, grinning at Isabela.

She shakes her head at him, and he sighs dramatically- without rancor, it’s been made clear that _that_ particular ship has sailed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aveline:  
> http://bit.ly/qprKlX  
> http://bit.ly/rjkqPU
> 
> Don’s tux:  
> http://bit.ly/ogUNNR
> 
> Tiffany Marigold pin:  
> http://bit.ly/nVBoL7
> 
> Garrett’s tux:  
> http://bit.ly/eFD8aO
> 
> Groomsmen:  
> http://bit.ly/nlUSzA
> 
> Tonight, Tonight wedding march:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8p6f33Y2lW8


	13. Hand In Glove, Part VII

Everyone settles down and we find our seats- as soon as we do I take off my jacket and roll up my sleeves, slipping the cufflinks into my pocket. I loosen my tie and undo a few buttons at the collar, and I finally feel like I can breathe again.

It’s not a huge party, with Aveline’s four maiden aunts, Don’s grandmother, all of us in the wedding party, and a bunch of coworkers from the force, some with spouses and teenage kids in tow. There’s probably about forty of us in all, and thankfully quiet in an adult way since the invitation named the wedding as an adults-only function. I like kids, but nothing grates on my nerves more than a crying baby in the middle of a solemn occasion.

Leto Argento is serving drinks with a smile and flair- Isabela has noticed and is making conversation while she spins a glass in her hands. _Trading bartending stories?_ I wonder, but, no, with the looks Isabela’s giving him, she’s interested in more than talk.

Alistair pops open the champagne at our table and pours for all of us- as if on cue Trace chimes a knife against a glass, then clears his throat as quiet descends.

“For those of you who may not know me, I’m Trace, Don’s best man.” A cheer goes up from the tables where the other cops are sitting, and he smiles in their direction. “Nine years ago, a brown-haired rookie fumbled his way onto the force-“Laughter and catcalls from the cops- “and I was the one assigned to show him the ropes and keep him out of trouble. Now, we’ve had some close calls, and things have been tough a time or two, but I’m proud to say that Don has always been an exemplary cop and a great friend.”

He turns and smiles at Don, who’s holding Aveline’s hand and grinning. “He was always single-minded and serious until a certain redhead joined us five years ago- and those of us who knew him were astonished to find that our steady Don was stuttering, mumbling, dropping things, tripping over cords-“ Don blushes a bit, and the cops are laughing, loudly. “But the lovely lady was as single-minded as he, and I have to admit there were times when I wondered if they’d ever manage to have a conversation that _didn’t_ revolve around the care and maintenance of firearms.”

Trace smiles and takes a breath. “After I got to know Aveline, I realized that she and I had much in common- we both used work as a way to make up for personal loss. If we could take a moment, here, and honor the memory of those who’ve left us behind.”

Trace pauses, and the room is quiet in remembrance. I remember Mom and Dad, and the joy they found in one another on a daily basis. Aveline blinks, smiling at Don and squeezing his hand.

“But life is full of wonderful surprises, and I’m thrilled that Don and Aveline found each other,” Trace continues. “I’ll never know what magic finally brought them together, but I’ve never seen two people more suited to one another. I don’t have to wish you happiness- anyone who looks at the two of you knows you’ve already found it. But as they say in Ireland:

 _May you be poor in misfortune,  
Rich in blessings,  
Slow to make enemies,  
Quick to make friends,  
But rich or poor, quick or slow,  
May you know nothing but happiness  
From this day forward._”

Cheers of “Here! Here!” spread across the room, and I raise a glass with a table full of good friends, clinking my glass with Anders’ before we drink.

Aveline says something to Trace, and he grins. “The bride wishes to inform everyone that the food is ready- help yourselves!” Trace sits down to a roomful of applause, and people begin milling over to the catering area, where plates and food await.

Alistair refills our champagne flutes, and Elissa, Anders, Beth, Day and I spend a few moments in conversation as we wait for the crowd to be served and disperse back to their tables.

I see Isabela wave her fingers at Leto Argento before she makes her way back to the table where she, Trace, Olivia, Aveline and Don are sitting.

The next hour passes in a pleasant blur of food and conversation, with excellent table wines provided by Argento. Anders isn’t much of a drinker, so we’d agreed that he’d do the driving back to the hotel. Not that I’m getting drunk, but I don’t drink and drive, ever. The driver that killed Mom and Dad was drunk, and if Beth hadn’t decided at the last minute to stay home instead of going with them to the store, I would probably have lost her as well. So- yeah. Better safe than sorry. Isabela pulls Argento over to the buffet and bullies him into getting a plate of food- I feel momentarily guilty that I forgot all about him, but Izzy’s earning brownie points, smart girl.

We gather around as they cut the cake, a traditional fluffy tiered thing with an amusing topper of a bride and groom holding guns. Av pops a bit of cake into Don’s mouth- she gives him a pre-emptive Look that stifles any urge he might have had to get crazy with his portion.

After we’ve eaten, the live music starts up- they’ve gotten a Neil Diamond impersonator (Aveline’s favorite) and a band doing a tribute to the Carpenters (Don’s favorite.) Don pulls her out into the open dance area, and the Karen Carpenter-type singer starts singing Neil Diamond’s “Marry Me” with the impersonator.

The room is quiet except for the music, and I’ve never seen Av look so happy. Don is mouthing the words to her while they dance, and as we watch them Anders puts his hand on mine.

We clap and cheer when the song ends, Don giving Aveline a smacking kiss. The band breaks into “Close to You” and other couples begin to join them on the dance floor.

Day pulls Beth onto the dance floor, and I’m not sure whether or not to glare at him. He’s a rake and a bounder, and while that’s terribly entertaining when you’re out trying to pick people up in college, it’s less endearing when and if it’s directed at your baby sister. It’s not the family connections- we’re second cousins, actually- but if he leers at her-

“Garrett, stop glaring,” Anders says in an undertone. “He’s being a perfect gentleman.”

I try.

I look over at the bar area to find Isabela and Leto engaged in some sort of bartending thing, each of them taking turns flipping bottles or whatnot. A small crowd of non-dancers has gathered round, and they are grinning at each other as they throw glassware around expertly. I’ve seen Isabela do similar stuff at the Hanged Man on occasion, but as I watch Leto balance a glass on his shoulder after flipping a bottle behind his back, then pour a drink into it, I realize he’s no slouch at this game either. Isabela flips a bottle around and balances it expertly on her hand, then breaks into a juggling routine, and when I see Leto’s eyes on her breasts, I resist the urge to laugh. _Poor guy never had a chance._

When the Neil Diamond impersonator and the Karen Carpenter singer break into a duet rendition of “For All We Know” Anders tugs at my hand. “Dance with me?” he says, brown eyes wide with entreaty.

“I’m not that good a dancer,” I say doubtfully, but I let him tug me onto the floor. He leads and I try not to step on his feet, but after a few bars I can’t help but smile- he looks beautiful and his hand is warm in mine. He’s a good dancer, of course, and my stomach flutters a bit as he leads me around in a simple two-step box-step thingy. I have no idea what we’re doing, but it works, and it’s fun.

Some time later I make my way inside Alistair’s house to use the bathroom- as I’m walking through the living area I hear voices coming indistinctly from the darkened dining room. Curious, I walk over and flip on the light-

“Oh, god, fuck, sorry!” I say, turning posthaste and turning the light off. Isabela laughs, and as I walk away I hear the continuation of small, rhythmic creaking sounds, desperately trying to wipe the image of Isabela, dress rucked up around her waist, bent over Alistair’s dining table, Leto pounding into her from behind-

“Dammit, Isabela,” I mutter, heading to the bathroom. I’ll have to tell Elissa to clean the table.

I get back outside and resume my seat- after another twenty minutes Leto and Isabela come back outside. ‘Bela gives me a grin and I shake my head at her, smiling in spite of myself.

Av and Don have been circulating around and visiting with everyone- ‘Bela speaks to the musicians and when the song ends, they move to the table of gifts. Amidst much _ooh_ -ing and cheering, they proceed to open their gifts- lingerie, gift certificates, a crock-pot. When Av gets to my card she opens it, and as her eyebrows go up she hands it to Don.

“Garrett,” she calls out, “You got us a wine refrigerator?”

“Recommended by Argento’s,” I say, “and it should be waiting for you when you get home.”

“Does it come with a kitten?” she says with a laugh, and I look at Anders. He looks at me innocently, a small smirk at the corner of his mouth. _He drew a kitten on it anyway, the brat._

“Kittens could be arranged if you want,” I reply, “but as far as I know it’s not a standard option for wine fridges, actually.”

“We’ll pass,” she laughs, “Thanks, both of you!”

“Happy, uh, wedding!” I say, awkwardly, and the crowd cheers, glasses hoisted in unofficial toasts.

When the last gift is opened, benefactor thanked, the light beginning to fall as it creeps toward night, Av and Don take their leave- their plane to Paris leaves in a few hours. ‘Bela and Trace will see to the gifts, and Al and Elissa have the guests taken care of.

“Shall we head back to the hotel?” Anders asks, and I nod. It’s been a long, good day, and I can’t wait to get out of this tux.

We bid our farewells and drive quietly back to the hotel, a welcome, comfortable silence between the two of us.

“It was a nice wedding,” Anders says softly, and I grunt assent.

He pauses for a moment. “Have you ever wanted- I mean,” he trails off.

The Smiths are up again, _Hand In Glove_ over the speakers, and I can’t help but smile-

 _Hand in glove  
The sun shines out of our behinds  
No, it’s not like any other love  
This one is different- because it’s us _

“I never thought I’d be able to,” I answer honestly. “I’ve always known that I liked men, and up until a few years ago it wasn’t an option, legally.”

“But did you want to?” he says, insistently, and something inside me tightens in fear, anticipation. I know he doesn’t mean it like that-

“My mom and dad had a great relationship- I guess I always wanted to have something like that, ceremony or no. But I think everyone wants that.”

 _And if the people stare  
Then the people stare  
Oh I really don’t know, and I really don’t care_

“You?” I say, as casually as I can. He’s quiet, thinking.

“I did,” he says, “Back when I thought I could settle down with a nice girl like my parents wanted. And even after that, I’d always dreamed of it- not so much the wedding as settling down, having someone who loved me, with me.”

 _So hand in glove I stake my claim  
I’ll fight to the last breath_

“And now?” I say.

His hand tightens on the steering wheel. “I don’t know,” he says, honestly. “I don’t want to be _owned_. I’ve had enough of being someone’s possession.”

I take in a shaky breath. At least he’s being honest, but it hurts, a little. God, I want to _kill_ anyone who’s ever hurt him-

 _If they dare touch a hair on your head  
I’ll fight to the last breath_

“I understand,” I say. “It’s not-“ I fumble a bit. “It’s ok, with me, I mean.”

 _For the Good Life is out there somewhere,  
So stay on my arm, you little charmer-_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wedding cake topper:  
> http://www.coloradocarla.com/doublegunwedding.jpg
> 
> Neil Diamond’s “Marry Me”:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mwDqxS1h5w4
> 
> The Carpenters, “Close to You”:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6inwzOooXRU
> 
> The Carpenters, “For All We Know”:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=exhiNToY3eI


	14. Hand In Glove, Part VIII

He pulls in front of the hotel, and we get out, coats in hand, and head inside, handing Baby’s keys to the valet. When we get upstairs, I give Merrill a call, checking on Mabs and the cats- all is well.

As I strip out of the tux with a sigh of relief, I feel his arms come around me. “Garrett,” he says, resting his head against my back. “Give me time.”

I lace my fingers through his. “Whatever you need, Anders. I love you,” I say, as earnestly as I can.

He takes in a breath against my back, a soft pull of air, as if he’s going to respond-

Silence.

I’m trying not to push, god knows, but it’s starting to hurt a little every time I say it. I unwrap his arms from around me as gently as I can. “I need a shower,” I say, and head into the bathroom.

As I turn the water on, he comes in. “Garrett-“ he says, uncertainly.

“Anders,” I say, “It’s ok. I’m trying, you know. It’s just-“ I run my hand through my hair, pulling a bit in frustration. “I should have said something years ago. If I feel more involved than you do, it’s my own damn fault. I’m happy that you’re with me-“

“But you want more,” he finishes, and I unbutton my pants, shucking the last of my clothing.

I turn around, and he’s there, shirt open to the waist, and I can’t help it- I push him to the opposite wall, kissing him with all the feeling I can muster.

“I want _you_ ,” I say, “Whatever you want, whatever you can give. I know you care about me-“

“I do,” he says, and his voice cracks. I cradle his face in my palms, his beautiful, beautiful face, eyes filling.

“Don’t cry, love,” I say, and he bites his lip, a tear tracing down his face. I wipe it away with my thumb. “Don’t be sad, please.”

“Garrett,” he gulps, “I can’t give you normal. I wish I could, that I could just jump into your arms and tell you all the things you want to hear, but-“ he takes a breath. “Every time I said it, _every time_ ,” he says with emphasis, “That was the sign they needed, that I wasn’t going to leave, that they could start with the crazy shit and I wouldn’t leave. I _know_ you’re not like that-“

“I’d never hurt you, never,” I swear, and he nods, one of his hands coming up to cup mine. I can only wonder if I look as distressed as I feel, because he looks concerned _for me_ , as if I’m the one who was hurt.

“I know,” he says, softly, “and if I didn’t feel that safe with you, I wouldn’t stay. I’ve had enough of being afraid. And I’m working on the rest of it with Zev, so, please-“

I kiss him, because I don’t know how else to tell him, to show him, to give him what he needs from me. Languid, slow, full of need and want and love and emotion, I kiss him, a perfect storm of feeling. It’s not everything, but for now, it’s enough.

I pull away slightly- the water’s running and it’s getting late. “Shower,” I say, and moving to the other side of the small room, slide the glass door open, stepping inside.

The water is hot and after a long day in formal clothes, feels _fantastic_. For a moment I wish I was back home, that I could step into my own little bathroom, slip into my comfortable bed, Anders at my side, and snuggle with Mabs and the cats. Not that I don’t enjoy a weekend away, but I’m a boring homebody at heart.

I shampoo my hair and rinse, slicking water out of my face and simply enjoying the hot rivulets of water cascading over my back. I start to soap up when the shower door slides open in back, and I open my eyes to see Anders step in with me.

“Wash your back?” he says, and I hand him the soap. I turn around and feel him run the soap over my back, his strong hands moving me where he wants me. When he’s done I turn around and rinse the last of the soap off my back, watching as he soaps under his arms, down flat belly to his cock. I condition my hair and rinse it out while he finishes soaping, and then we switch places, the wet slide of our bodies in the small space tantalizing. He hands me the soap and without another word I wash his back, running my fingers greedily along his spine, caressing the curve of his lower back, teasingly running the soap over his buttocks.

“Mmn,” he says as I slide a soapy hand between his cheeks, ghosting over the pucker of his ass. He makes a small sound when I finally pull away, stepping out of the shower and leaving him to finish rinsing.

I’ve never taken him that way- I’d like to, but I don’t know what kind of memories it’d bring up, and aside from that first night he’s never offered.

The water stops while I’m toweling off, and he steps out, behind me, the full-length mirror on the nearest wall fogged, our figures indistinct.

I hand him a towel and toss mine on the floor to soak up the water, then grab my comb and run it through my hair, following up with a quick brush to the teeth. He’s quiet behind me, and I look over, toothbrush in mouth, to see him toweling off the mirror.

“Aareyouooin?” I say around the brush, and he tosses the towel on the floor, stepping out of the bathroom. When he comes back, hair tangled and wet on his shoulders, he has the bottle of lube in hand, setting it on the counter-

Huh?

“What,” I say, spitting out the toothpaste and rinsing my mouth, “are you doing, Anders?”

He turns to me, eyes hot. In the next moment he’s pushed me up against the counter, and although the mirror on the opposite wall is fogging again, slightly, I can see the the pale skin of his back, the light dusting of freckles on his shoulders, the curve of his back-

And then he kneels down on the floor, towels bunched underneath, and takes my cock in hand. “Watch,” he says, and in the next moment he’s taken me in his mouth, _oh, god._

I feel- I don’t know. Like a Roman or a Greek in a bath-house, the air warm and slightly steamy, the marble of the counter hot under my hands and my ass as my lover does amazing things to me with his mouth. I can see both of us in the mirror, and as his head bobs, slowly, it’s like watching porn, except it’s him and me, and I can glance from his closed eyes and fluttering lashes to where he’s kneeling in front of me, reflected in the mirror.

When his eyes open and meet mine, I can’t help but sigh his name, _Anders_ , and then he pulls off me, eyes serious and warm.

“I want to watch you take me,” he says, and whatever blood was left in my brain rushes out, leaving me dizzy.

“What?” I say, ever the articulate one, _goddamnit, me._

He picks up the lube, uncapping it with a click and pushing it into my hand. “Take me,” he says, firmly.

“Here? Not- in the bed?” It’s not the most comfortable place I can think of-

He turns around, bracing one hand against the mirror, eyes meeting mine. “I want to watch you,” he says, “And I want you to watch me. Here.” He slides a hand along his cock, teasingly, and I’m drawn to the movement in the mirror.

Ok, here is good.

I pour some of the lube on my fingers, then step behind him, kissing his shoulder as I slide my fingers between his cheeks. He’s flushed, mouth opening slightly as I ghost my fingers over him. “You don’t have to,” I say, “If you don’t want to.”

“I want to,” he says, breathily, the sound turning into a soft, broken moan as I ease the tip of a finger inside him.

Tight, oh, god, he’s so tight. I toy with him, gently, just a fingertip, my hand resting against his ass, and I mouth his shoulder.

“More,” he sighs, and he’s watching me in the mirror, pushing back against my hand as I slide my finger inside, twisting slowly back and forth.

Time slows and there’s nothing but the two of us, him falling apart in my arms, beloved, _Anders._

I ease my finger out, trying to control my breathing, and oh, god, I want him so much. “On your knees,” I say, and in the mirror he licks his lips, kneeling before me. I slick up my cock and kneel behind him- he’s resting one arm on the mirrored wall, the other on the lip of the tub, spread out before me.

When I press slowly against him, we both moan, and I can see it in his face, the struggle, the pleasure, the conflict.

“Ok?” I gasp out, easing up, pulling away. “I can stop-“

He pushes against me with a soft moan, and _god,_ I can’t quite get inside, yet-

“Been a while,” he gasps, and I almost laugh, breathlessly.

“Me too,” I say, and when he relaxes, slightly, I push, just a bit.

“Oh, _god,_ Anders,” I grit out when I’m finally inside, just the head, but he feels beyond amazing and I don’t know how long I’ll be able to hold on. I hold still, letting him adjust, running my hand over his back, kneading his buttocks.

I pull out and slick up with more lube, and the next time I press in, him pushing back, he takes me with a gasp that sounds like my name.

“Ok?” I say again, because I need to know, need him to know that it’s me and that he’s safe, loved. He raises half-lidded eyes to meet mine in the mirror, and I feel him relax a bit, just enough so that I can start up a slow, rocking rhythm.

He moves slightly, the hand that was on the mirror moving to stroke his cock, his other hand braced against the tub. I rub my hands along his shoulders, moving to the curve of his waist, gripping his hips, and I’m losing control, faster, the slap of flesh on flesh, of gasping breaths and whispered moans, the feeling of him so tight and hot around me driving me closer and closer to the edge.

“Anders,” I moan, “I’m going to come-“

He groans and bucks against me, hands white-knuckled on the edge of the tub, pressing his ass against my hips, and I feel him tighten around me, the counterpoint to the long, sobbing cry he lets out as he comes. I follow, moments later, orgasm like a white-hot bolt of lightning behind my eyes as I pull him tightly to me.

I drop my head to the back of his neck, breathing in the scent of him, my heart thundering. I’m glad we’re on the floor because if I were standing I’m pretty sure I’d collapse, and I can’t feel my toes.

“Give me a second,” I say, and after a moment or two I gently pull out, both of us nearly whimpering at the sensation. I sit back, and a moment later he does too, the both of us, grown men and fools, cuddling on the bathroom floor. I wrap my arms around him.

“I like this bathroom,” I say, and he laughs, leaning his head back against my shoulder. I kiss him, lazily, and we mop up our mess before jumping back into the shower for a quick rinse.

We hop into bed and turn on the TV. _I Heart Huckabees_ is on, close to the end, and Dustin Hoffman is talking to Jason Schwartzman about the blanket thing. _And over here, this is a disease, and this is an orgasm, and this is a hamburger._

We relax into the quiet, and I’m nearly asleep against his back. _When you get the blanket thing, you can relax, because everything you could ever want, or be, you already have, and are._

I press a kiss to his back, and drift off.

 _Everything you could ever want, or be, you already have, and are._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I Heart Huckabees- The Blanket:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJd3T9lD8Gc


	15. Hand In Glove, Part IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the last installment of this chapter of _A Light That Never Goes Out_. Hope everyone enjoyed- there will be more soon!

I wake up at dawn, briefly, the sky brightening weakly through the curtains- looks like summer is giving way to fall. I don’t mind, really- I love rainy seasons best of all, although I’m not looking forward to the snow. Anders is warm and beautiful, back turned to me while he sleeps. He’s usually up before me, so I struggle through my normal grogginess to throw an arm over his waist and spoon.

He murmurs something and clutches his pillow, and I close my eyes, inhaling his scent, listening to the sound of his breath-

When I open my eyes again it’s nearly seven, and I’ve been crowded to the side of the bed, slightly chilly. The bedsheets are warm against my face, and- wait, where’s my pillow?

I roll over to find Anders sprawled over the bed, two pillows under his head and _my_ pillow in his arms, the blanket on half of him, the other half hanging off the side of the bed.

“Gimme pillow,” I mumble, and he _whines_ when I pull it out of his grasp. Damn blanket and bed-hog- I curl up against him again, setting my chilled feet against his calves, yanking the blanket over the both of us. A little bit of shoving and I finally have a third of the bed to lay on.

He blinks his eyes open and gives me a dirty look. “Your feet are freezing,” he slurs, voice slightly gritty with sleep.

“ _You_ stole the blanket,” I retort, discomfort waking me as effectively as coffee.

Mm. Coffee.

We loll around in bed for another half-hour before getting up and dressed, then have breakfast.

“So why the aquarium?” he asks me over coffee, sipping appreciatively.

I shrug. “You see sick animals all the time,” I say after a moment. “I thought it’d be nice to enjoy some healthy ones for a change.”

“Are you fishing for brownie points?” he smiles, and I roll my eyes.

“As if I need ‘em,” I scoff.

We check out and put the bags in the car; they’ll be fine in the trunk while we’re at the aquarium, and we can head home afterwards.

The aquarium’s already buzzing when we arrive- we get inside to find out that the penguins get fed at 9.

We make our way over to the exhibit and spend the next little bit watching the zookeepers feed the penguins- they seem to be taking notes or inventory for each one, the birds gobbling down fish and crowding around the trainer.

“Bet that water’s cold,” I say, looking at the expressionless zookeeper waist-deep in the pond, wetsuit-clad and serious. They’re cute, and when the feeding time ends they zip into the water, stocky little bodies suddenly speedy and strong.

I snap a few pictures, then turn and take a picture of Anders watching the penguins. He looks relaxed and happy, giving me an eye-roll as I snap the shot. “We come to the aquarium and you take pictures of me?”

“You’re taking enough penguin shots for both of us.” I grin at him and he shakes a fist at me in mock anger before raising his own camera and snapping a shot of me.

We walk over to the harbor seal exhibit and watch them being trained, and I can’t help but smile as the trainers run them through their behaviors. Anders is snapping pics, of course, and I simply sit back and watch them swim and dance.

The Giant Ocean tank is amazingly tall- four stories with a ramp that lets you circle around and view the different animals. I grin when I see that Myrtle the green sea turtle is still there- she’s been there for years and I remember seeing her when I was eight, slack-jawed in amazement as Dad held my hand.

We wander around for another few hours, reading the exhibits and watching the animals, then go to pet the sharks and the rays. As I reach a hand curiously towards a spiny plant, I hear a whirr behind me.

“Don’t- _manhandle_ , the urchin,” comes a wheezing voice, and I pull my hand back guiltily to see a wizened old man in a motorized wheelchair glaring at me.

“Isn’t that was this tank is for?” I reply- _does he work for the aquarium? Surely not._

His eyebrow shoots up. “Thaddeus!” he bellows. “Thaddeus!”

A large, stone-faced man comes up behind him and puts one hand on the back of the chair.

“Here,” he says, handing me a bumper sticker that says “Free the sharks!”, wizened hand shaking. “Free... of charge.”

I have _no_ idea what to do with it. “Uh, thanks,” I say.

“No charge, Thaddeus!” he yells suddenly. “Do you hear me? NO CHARGE!”

“I’ll just be going,” I say under my breath, and edge towards Anders, who’s entranced, petting the soft skin of a ray that keeps swimming by him. The love is mutual, I guess.

“Lunch?” I ask, and he pulls his hand out of the water reluctantly.

We head out of the aquarium and stop for a bite to eat, then return the rented tuxes before getting back on the road to New Haven. It’s been a good weekend, one of the best, but I can’t wait to get home.

We chat about inconsequential things- my childhood visits with my grandparents, his family gatherings, plans for Halloween, the clinic.

When we pull in the drive I hear Mab bark, once, and I know she recognizes the sound of Baby’s engine. I open the door and she nearly jumps up, tail wagging in sheer delight.

“Mabsy!” I say, roughing up her short fur, and Merrill appears in the doorway a moment later, beaming.

“Welcome back!” she smiles, “The animals missed you!”

“I missed them too,” I reply, maneuvering my suitcase to keep Warden from trying to bolt out the door.

Merrill takes off and Anders and I settle back in, throwing in a load of laundry and ordering a pizza. I flop on the couch and five seconds later Pounce claims my lap, turning and kneading a few times before settling down. Anders queues up a movie on Netflix- MST3K’s spoof of _The Girl in Lover’s Lane_. We wolf down two pepperoni pizzas and I nearly choke to death laughing at the train song- Anders pounds me on the back as I’m laughing and choking, beet-red, tears coming out of my eyes, and he’s laughing with me, or at me, probably.

It’s the perfect end to a perfect weekend, and I can’t help but think, _this is how it should be- this is how it always should have been, him and me._

His hand is on my thigh, his weight comfortable on the couch next to me, the line of our bodies touching in what’s becoming a delightfully familiar way. He fits me, and I fit him, a perfect match, like a hand in a glove, and I don’t ever want this moment to end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Harbor seal happy dance:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FvPA4BgEH00
> 
> Myrtle the sea-turtle:  
> http://samomatic.com/wordpress/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/AQ02.jpg
> 
> Awesome pics of the aquarium:  
> http://samomatic.com/2010/09/13/new-england-aquarium-photoshoot-pti/  
> http://samomatic.com/2010/09/17/new-england-aquarium-photoshoot-ptii/  
> http://samomatic.com/2010/09/24/new-england-aquarium-photoshoot-ptiii/
> 
> Shaaaaarks:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=igk8FiSIgNM
> 
> MST3K- the Train Song:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sCTWTfkXkmk


	16. What Difference Does It Make? Part I

“Anders, you _need_ your own car.” I look over to see him chewing his lip, arms crossed defensively over his chest. “It’s not that I mind you saving animals, and whatnot- I get that, appreciate it. But Baby isn’t suited for it, really- you should have something with a door in the back, something where you can keep supplies, or lay them flat before taking them to the clinic, or something.”

He’s giving me a glare. “This is about the upholstery, isn’t it?” he says, and now it’s my turn to bite my lip. “I _told_ you I’d have it cleaned, Garrett.”

“I know, but-“ _She’s my Baby, and she’s not meant for this kind of thing except in the most dire of emergencies._ But I can’t say that to him. He’d seen a dog get hit by a car on the way to work, and been out of the vehicle in a flash, giving the dog CPR and rushing it to the clinic. The owners were grateful, the local news had loved the story- everyone was happy except for me, because I’m selfish and a dog bleeding all over the upholstery that I helped my Dad put in makes me upset.

He sighs and turns around, running a hand through his hair. “I know you’re right, but it’s been a slow month for the clinic and I don’t know what I can afford right now, plus insurance-“

“I can help,” I’m relieved that it’s just _money-_ “It’s no big deal.”

Even from where I’m sitting I can see him tense up, and he mutters something under his breath.

“Sorry, I didn’t catch that?” I’m no good at reading people, but even I can see he’s upset.

“I _said_ ,” Anders enunciates, turning to me, “It’s not a big deal- to you.”

I shrug uncomfortably. “It’s just money, that’s what it’s for, right? I can spare it.”

He just shakes his head, hugging himself. “You just don’t _get_ it, do you,” his voice bitter. “I’m not your _project_ , or your _cause_ , or your little toy in need of rescue.”

“Wha-?” I’m floored, but before I can say anything he turns and throws up a hand.

“Ignore that-“ he sighs- “I’m just in a bad mood. You’re right, you always are. Let’s go get a damn car.”

 _Ow._ It stings, even though he’s taken it back, and I don’t know what to say. “We don’t have to-“

“For God’s sake,” he says, “You talked me into this. Let’s go find some crappy beater that my animals can bleed all over.”

I’ve never seen him like this- things were good after Av’s wedding, a few weeks of our own domestic bliss, both of us working, having dinner together, playing video games, poker with the guys, popcorn and movie marathons, making love. But since the dog, he’s been grouchy, and maybe I have been, too- that was _our_ backseat, and I’m probably going to have to tear it out and replace the fabric.

How stupid am I, upset over fabric?

“I’m sorry,” I offer, and he sighs.

“It’s just me, Garrett- it’s not your fault. I’m being an ass, sorry.”

I don’t know what to say, and I’m still a bit hurt, but he’s looking at me with wide, sad eyes, so I nod and shrug. “It’s ok.”

We get in the car and drive to Bodhan’s dealership- he and I go way back, and I know I can trust him to give us a fair shake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- as per an interesting discussion on Tumblr, I'm going to work on trying really hard not to tag my dialogue (i.e. "He said/answered/replied" and so forth.) Let's hear it for writing improvement! :D
> 
> Vets really do give CPR to dogs!  
> http://www.thebostonchannel.com/r/25877695/detail.html
> 
> The APA on controlling anger:  
> http://www.apa.org/topics/anger/control.aspx#
> 
> Article with great links (and Penn + Teller vid) explaining how being angry makes you more angry(reinforcement of neural pathways and behavior):  
> http://youarenotsosmart.com/2010/08/11/catharsis/


	17. What Difference Does It Make? Part II

We arrive at around four on a Sunday afternoon- the lot is buzzing a bit, but Bodhan spots me and makes his way over, smiling. “Mister Hawke,” he beams, ever formal in that charming way many older Brits have, “What a pleasure to see you here today! But I do hope that there’s nothing wrong with your lady.”

I shake my head with a smile. “Baby’s fine. We’re actually here to look for something for my boyfriend,” I say, Anders stepping forward to shake hands. “Anders is a vet- he could use a vehicle that can double as an animal ambulance if needed.”

“A hatchback or station wagon, perhaps?” Bodhan confirms, looking at Anders, who nods reluctantly. Bodhan looks back at me and coughs delicately. “In what price range are you looking to buy?”

I open my mouth to speak but Anders interrupts before I can get a word in, naming a ridiculously low figure.

“I see,” Bodhan says after a moment, looking from me to Anders and back. “Right this way, sirs.”

I wave at Sandal as we walk through the lot- he’s cleaning the windows and inspecting the vehicles for damage, intent and happy with his assigned tasks.

“Sandal still fixing everything he can get his hands on?” I say to Bodhan, who chuckles.

“Oh, you know my boy,” he says with pride, “Give him anything and he’ll fix or improve it for you before the day is out. My best mechanic, he is.”

Anders looks at Sandal then back at Bodhan. “Oh?” he says.

“The wife and I found the boy years back,” Bodhan says as we walk, “Someone left the poor boy in a box, just born, shivering with cold. We took him to the hospital right away- he was healthy, but... well, touched, as you see.” He shrugs. “We couldn’t have any children, so the idea of someone just _throwing_ a baby away- well. We visited him to make sure he was all right, and he smiled and laughed just like any other wee mite, and the wife was fond of him, so we adopted him.”

A paternal smile drifts over his face as he watches Sandal spray the car windows and wipe them down carefully. “Best thing we ever did. And it turns out the boy’s a natural at fixing things and helpful to have here at the lot- and he enjoys his work!” Bodhan smiles and walks up to a car, and I can’t help but hide my wince.

 _That’s got to be at least fifteen years old if it’s a day, and not in a good way, either._ The price on the windshield is a little over Anders’ named sum, but since it’s us, Bodhan is giving us a discount, apparently.

“This is what I have in your price range, sir,” he says, catching the look on my face. “Not the newest model, but she runs. Not too much rust, and the brake pads were just replaced, along with the tires.”

“Do you have something newer?” I say, and Anders shoots me a Look. “Just so we can see.”

Bodhan takes us over to another car, a 2005-ish Prius, well-kept. “The battery’s just been replaced, and she’s great on gas mileage. Very quiet too.”

I like American cars, but Toyotas especially have a good rep for reliability. I look up from my thoughts to see Anders staring at me, and I look over at Bodhan. “Give us a few minutes to talk?” I say, and he nods, giving us a little wave and walking off.

“It’s a nice car-“ I start but Anders cuts me off with a slashing movement of his hand.

“Garrett,” he says, voice rough, “It’s an eleven-thousand dollar car. I can’t even _begin_ to afford that right now.”

“But I can,” I say, “and you’d have a reliable car for years to come. You can always pay me back if you want, but it’s not a big deal-“

He says something vicious and angry in Polish, and the look on his face stops me in my tracks. “You can’t _buy_ me a fucking car, Garrett- no, you know what?” He paces away then back. “You can’t buy _me_. I’m not for fucking sale, and I won’t _owe_ you.”

Fear creeps into my stomach like a lead weight. _Are we- fighting?_ “You could get a loan,” I say after a moment, “But it’d just save you the interest to borrow from me, I mean, what difference does it make, right?“ I just need to explain to him, need him to understand that it’s not about the money, that it’s not important to me-

He stalks forward, and in a moment he’s in my personal space, close and not in a comfortable way. “Can you stop being such a little rich boy and _notice_ that I don’t care how much money you have,” he all but growls, and I’m sure my eyes are wide, heart beating in my chest.

“Anders-“ I all but whisper, god, he’s so _angry_ -

He stops, goes still, and I see the moment when horror flashes across his face. “Oh, God, I sound like-,” he pauses, then walks away. “I-“

“Anders, it’s just a car-“ I say, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder.

“Stop it, Garrett,” he says, voice low, and when he shrugs off my hand it cuts me like a knife. “Just- leave it alone.” He takes a deep breath and when he turns to me he’s nearly ashen, his face a mask. “Can we go? I need to- to think about it, please,” he says, and I take a deep breath myself.

I wave goodbye to Bodhan, Sandal staring after us as we make our way to the car- the ride home is uncomfortably silent but for the music.

When we get home I swallow the lump in my throat. “I’ll just- go work for a while,” I offer. What I really want is to hug him, to hold him and kiss him and tell him that I love him. I want him to love me back. But his face is expressionless and I don’t know what to do.

“Do you want to-“ I wrack my brain- “Go see a movie, or something? I could work later-”

“I’ve got things to do,” he says, “and I’m sure you do too. Let’s just focus on the tasks at hand.”

It’s an impersonal brush-off, and my throat tightens. I feel the edges of my own temper stir and bite my lip. _Getting angry won’t help._ “Fine,” I say, and without another word I head off to my office.

I hear him moving around the house, hear his indistinct timbre of his voice as he talks on the phone to someone. We’ve never had this kind of uneasy silence between us, the tension of a fight not yet fought, the anger over words said and unsaid. I know I’m hiding in the office, and I don’t know what to do, how far to push- I’ve never been really serious about anyone before, ever. All of my previous relationships ended casually, a friendly mutual agreement that we were done. I’ve never fought with anyone like this except maybe Carver, but never, never someone that I was in love with.

I’m scared.

 _You can’t buy me-_ his words echo in my head and I swear under my breath. “No one’s buying anyone, for fuck’s sake. What else am I supposed to do with money? It’s fucking worthless if it just sits in the bank when people _need_ it.” But I’m speaking under my breath, the door is closed, and from the front of the house I hear a car horn. The front door opens and closes- _wait-_

I stand up so quickly I knock my chair over and open the door- the house is quiet. I make it to the front window in time to see the taxi pull away from the curb, and turn around to find a folded note on the side table next to the door.

 _Garrett-  
I need some time to think. I’m going to stay at the clinic for a few days._

His name is signed in a neat scrawl underneath, no salutation, no “Love,” no “I’ll be home soon.” _He didn’t even talk to me before he ran._

I sit on the couch and Mabs sets her head in my lap, looking up at me with worried eyes. I don’t know what happened, how we went from kissing in bed this morning, from a breakfast together, his eyes crinkled at the corners as he tells me another bad joke, to this.

 _How did this happen?_ In the space of hours we’ve gone from together to- I don’t know. I don’t know what this is, whether it’s serious or not- I mean, he always left Nemis, but always came back. But I’m not Nemis, and he’s trying not to repeat history.

 _I don’t know if he’s coming home,_ and it crushes me, an ache in my stomach travelling up my throat like a howl I can’t, won’t, let out, and I haven’t wanted to cry like this since Mom and Dad died.

I sit back on the couch, staring blankly, the cats curling in my lap, and I watch the shadows fall as dusk approaches, the autumn night cool and crisp. It’s dark, but I’m worn out, and if I move I’ll start to cry, so I sit and watch the night fall, the house quiet, alone.


	18. What Difference Does It Make?  Part III

I get to bed that night, somehow, normally we'd have dinner together, but without him I just can't-

I wasn't hungry anyway.

The next day, the first day, I tell myself that everything will be better soon- this is just a little bump in the road, he'll be home soon and then we can talk.  I eat a bowl of cereal, wash my lone dish and spoon and dry them before putting them back away, just like I did before he moved in-

Work.  Work is good.  I head into the office and finish up the Argento job- I'll stop by and drop the plans off sometime this week, and recommend a contractor (unless they want me to do it, of course.)  Ditto for the Vael job, although we'll need a sizeable crew for that one.

As six approaches I try not to stare at the clock- Anders gets home at six, usually.  But if he had to call a cab it could take a while longer-

At eight I open up a can of Spaghetti-Os and eat them, unheated, then run a bath and sit in the water, trying not to think.  He'll be home tomorrow, right?  Or at least call?

At ten I slip into bed, his faint but unmistakeable scent making my eyes prickle.  I give up the pretense and sleep on his side, joined moments later by a worried Mabs who huffs as she curls up on my side.

On the second day I don't wake up until noon- I'd had a few moments where I'd blinked awake, but as soon as memory kicked in I shut my eyes again.  It's so much easier to be unconscious.

When I finally drag myself out of bed I get dressed, grab the envelopes with the invoices, the cardboard tubes that hold the plans, and head out.  I stop off at the post office and mail off Vael's, then pop by Argento's and drop off their plans.

While I'm there, I glance around at the shop, and without thinking about it too much grab four bottles of Muchote Reposado.  Varania rings me up, eyeing me.  "Everything all right, Garrett?" she says, putting the bottles in a sack.  "You look tired."

I shrug.  "Not really," I say, but further words stick in my throat, and I know the alcohol won't help, not really, but I can't bear the thought of being alone with my thoughts again tonight.

"Your boyfriend's not with you today," she says, sharp emerald eyes sympathetic, putting a hand over mine.

A lump sticks in my throat.  "No, he's not," I manage, giving her a wan smile, and I take the sack and head outside before her sympathy undoes me.

 _God, I'm a fucking pitiful wreck.  Pitiful._

I head home, hoping against hope that he's home.  He's not.

Merrill stops by and walks Mabs at six, eyes wide and worried.  I'm halfway through a bottle of Reposado, and debating going back on my meds.  Not _with_ the alcohol, of course, I'm not that much of an idiot.  I'd stopped taking them years and years ago- I'm usually fine, and the supplements I take usually keep my mood up, but right now I'm far away from _usually._

The meds kill my sex drive and leave me feeling like a zombie- when I'm on them I _want_ to feel angry or sad, I really do, but the capacity just isn't there.  It was the apathy that led me to try other things, to learn to cope without them, but right now I could use some apathy, I really could.

"Garrett?" she says, breaking me out of my thoughts.  "Are you all right?"

Mabs lays down at my feet, worried about me, my baby.

I toy with the shot glass, watching the rays of sun shine through the amber liquid onto the wood surface of the table where Anders and I usually eat dinner.

"Nope," I say, finally, because really, what else is there to say?

Merrill bites her lip.  "He's as miserable as you are," she says, finally.  "Three day's worth of scruff and barely saying two words to anyone."

I trace my name in the dust and sunlight that's accumulated on the table with a wet finger.   _Garrett.  Idiot._   

"Tha's his own _damn_ fault," I say, "If he wanned to come home he would, right?  I can't.."

I'm not sure what point I'm trying to make, but anger, bright and hot is welling up- no, no no no no.  Anger is bad.  Anger is what gets me beating the shit out of Cullen in the tenth grade, smashing his face in when he dares to call me a fucking pervert, an abomination, righteous in his faith, white Mormon shirt spattered with his blood when I break his nose.

And when I'd been sent home, crying in rage and hurt, Dad had sat with me, as distressed as I was, his quiet presence comforting, thank god he still loved me even though I was a monster.  And when he'd spoken, quiet, firm, loving, telling me that anger _creates_ anger, and no, I wasn't wrong to defend myself, that he loved me no matter what, but that I needed to rein in my response, to defend with words and reason instead of fists-

I'd never been more ashamed in my life.

And when he'd hugged me, made me promise that I'd always strive for the best in me, instead of the worst, I'd hugged him back and swore that I'd always try to make him proud of me.

After the funeral I'd said the same thing, leaving Mom's favorite flowers on their grave, and even though I doubted that they could hear me, saying it out loud gave me a small measure of comfort.  Even if they were gone, _I'd_ remember, and that was the important thing.

Merrill comes over to hug me, and I let her, the small comfort of her little arms like a ghost of my mother, for just a moment.

"Wait," I say, struck by an idea, and I get up, unsteadily, and head to the office, grabbing a pen and a piece of paper.  Whatever else I do, whatever else I feel, Zev always said the most important thing was to keep talking, keep communicating.   _I'm trying, Dad_ , I think, as I scribble a note:

 _I love you.  I miss you.  Please come home soon- I'm waiting for you._

I scribble a little picture of a cat on it and sign it, then fold it and hand it to Merrill.

"Give him this for me?"

She nods, and I nod back.  When she leaves, I settle into the darkness, the comfortable, familiar dark, the smooth coolness of the shot glass in my hand, the taste of fruit, wood, spice and alcohol lingering on my tongue.

When I finish the bottle I stumble, trip, fall and crawl into bed, the room, my head, behind my eyes, everything spinning, and I can _smell_ him, wrap him around me like a blanket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- obviously I’m not a doctor, and I’m not prescribing/suggesting anything. I’m simply writing about a common experience of people I’ve known and the feelings they’ve expressed to me on the subject. This story should in no way be taken as medical advice in any way, shape or form.
> 
> Some cool examples of what a landscape architect does:  
> http://www.sustland.umn.edu/design/colortechniques.html
> 
> Muchote Tequila Reposado:  
> http://www.tequila.net/tequila-reviews/reposados/muchote-tequila-reposado.html
> 
> Atypical depression:  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Atypical_depression  
> http://www.healthyplace.com/depression/main/atypical-depression/menu-id-68/


	19. What Difference Does It Make? Part IV

On the third day I go through two more bottles of the Reposado, sitting on the couch, watching TV, waiting, waiting, waiting.

On the fourth day I wake up at three in the afternoon to insistent knocking on the door. My mouth tastes foul, I’m dehydrated and exhausted, somehow, still, and my head hurts (we won’t even START on the stomach.) _Did I eat yesterday?_

The knock comes again and I stumble out of bed- Anders wouldn’t knock, I don’t think- well maybe?

I open the door and wince at the sunlight striking me full on, shining around a figure in uniform-

“Jesus, Garrett, what the _hell_ have you been doing to yourself?” comes the voice, and I blink. What the-

“Carver?” I croak, stepping backward as he pushes his way into the house, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. “What are you _doing_ here?”

“I’m on leave,” he says, “and I needed a place to stay. What the hell is going on, Garrett?”

“Um-“ I run my hand through my hair haphazardly- “It’s been a rough couple of days.”

I step back as he walks through the house- of course, he knows where everything is, it’s just been a year and a half-

“Whose stuff is this?” his voice comes from down the hallway, and I wince, shoving the palms of my hands into my eyes. “Anders’,” I say tiredly. “You remember-“

He comes back into the room, tall and strong and restless- where the hell did my whiny little brother go?

“That guy you’ve been mooning after for years?” he says, taking off his camo cap to reveal the closely-cropped Army cut. “If he’s moved in, why do you look like hell and smell like a brewery?”

“ _Jeez_ , Carver, you’re so fucking nosy,” I grit out- he always seems to bring out the angry kid in me. “We had a- a fight, and he’s been staying at the clinic for a few days.”

He frowns at me. “You’re not taking your meds, are you?”

I roll my eyes. “I haven’t taken them for years, Carver. I’m usually fine, but-“

“But this guy’s got you all twisted up, and now you’re sleeping all day and drinking all night,” he finishes, and I groan.

“It’s not that simple-“ but he’s got that mulish look on his face, and I realize he’s already made up his mind.

“Right,” he says, suddenly businesslike, “Into the shower with you, Big Brother. You stink and you look even worse. And do something about that beard, for god’s sake.”

I think about arguing, but really, it’s easier just to listen, to let him call the shots for the time being, and I shrug, then head off to the shower.

By the time I get out and get dressed, I’m feeling halfway human, and when I get into the living room Carver intercepts me with a large glass of water and two aspirin. I take them without comment, then sit at the table and watch my bratty little brother whip up soup and sandwiches. _When the hell did Carver learn to cook?_

“So,” he says, “Do I need to beat this guy up for you, or what?”

The question startles a laugh out of me, Carver, protector of my virtue- or something. “Hardly,” I say, and when I smile it feels like it’s the first time in days. “He’s just had some rough- experiences, and the whole money thing freaked him out, I think.”

His face darkens like a stormcloud. “Did you tell him?” he says, “Did you tell him where we wanted to tell the lawyer to shove the money?”

I shake my head, chewing a bite of sandwich. “He just thinks I’m a spoiled rich kid,” I say, and he snorts.

“The only reason Nan left us the money was to spite Mom and Dad- to throw it back in their faces that Mom’d never get a penny of it,” he says, and I nod.

“We didn’t get a chance to talk about it,” I admit. “I offered to buy him a car, or loan him the money for it, and he got upset and told me I couldn’t ‘buy’ him.”

Carver snorts. “If you wanted someone you could ‘buy’ you’d have had one years ago. You’ve been carrying a torch for this guy for what, like five years?”

“Seven,” I correct, and he rolls his eyes at me. “Look, his last boyfriend beat him up, knocked him around, threatened him, ran his life. He’s- _we’re_ , just trying to work things out. I-“ I sigh. “I didn’t think about the money thing at all. It doesn’t matter to me, except that it built my house and it’s there when I need it.”

“So call him,” Carver says, “or go-“ he grimaces- “kiss him in his clinic, or something.”

“You don’t crowd someone when they ask you for space,” I retort. “If he needs time to think, he has it. He has my number.”

Carver shrugs. “It’s your life, Brother. But don’t just sit here in the dark and cry like a little emo kid.”

“This little emo kid can still kick your ass,” I say, grinning in spite of myself.

“You think?” he says, and at the sudden predatory glee on his face, I find myself re-evaluating that statement. _Maybe not_ , I realize, and the realization is oddly comforting. Carver doesn’t need me to look after him any more- he can take care of himself. It’s not just that he’s older- the Army’s matured him, somehow, given him the confidence that he never had growing up.

“So,” he says, “Let’s go to the Rose.”

“Uh-“ _he wants to go ogle tits and ass and drink?_ “Gay, here, and also, didn’t you just tell me I smelled like a brewery?”

“ _I’ll_ be drinking,” he says, with a gleam in his eyes, “and you’ll be my designated driver. Besides, you’re taken, so whether or not you like what you see is beside the point. And the ladies _love_ a man in uniform.”

“You should call Day,” I say, shaking my head with a mix of brotherly pride and exasperation. “That’s more his thing than mine.”

“Sounds good,” he says, “he can come too.”

And so somehow, I find myself at the Blooming Rose, watching scantily-clad ladies drape themselves over my little brother, him tucking a seemingly endless supply of ones into their thongs, Daylen drinking and cheering with him as the music pounds loudly throughout the club.

I nurse a Coke and decline offers of lap-dances, watching gleaming costumes sparkle over plastic bodies and smiles.

It’s not fun, but it’s better than being alone, and the music makes it impossible to think.

When we get home at two, I pour Carver into the spare bed and sit up- I’ve been sleeping so much lately that I’m suddenly wide awake.

I wonder what Anders is doing- is he asleep, right now, or awake, like me?

I wander into my office and turn on the desk light, pulling out my selection of pencils. I turn the music on, low, Mabs at my feet, and I start to draw. I usually only draw gardens, walks, flowers, plants, water features, work-related stuff, but when I was younger I sketched all the time.

The first face I draw turns into Anders, the look on his face when he wakes up in the morning, eyes half-lidded, smiling at me, hair mussed, and I shade every line with a little ache, missing him.

I boot up the computer and look at the aquarium pics- there he is, standing, camera in hand, grinning at me in front of the penguin exhibit. I draw him, as if by doing so I can capture some part of his spirit, call him home, _come home, love._

I draw Mabs, Carver in his uniform, Beth at the wedding, Av and Don, Argento, Anders in his tux at Av’s wedding, Anders in the shower, Anders in the kitchen making pancakes. I draw Mom and Dad, even Nan, and when I’m tired, the clock indicating six, I set the pencils down, shut the light off and go sit in the living room. The sun is coming up, golds and oranges and reds painting the horizon, pushing back the dark, and it’s the start of the fifth day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N- in case it isn't clear, the college timeline goes something like this:  Garrett goes to college>> Nan dies and leaves all the grandkids the Amell fortune >> Malcolm and Leandra have a fatal car accident >> Carver and Beth start school >> Carver joins the army >> Beth goes to nursing school >> current events
> 
> Carver's Multicam (new uniform being phased in for troops in Afghanistan):  
> http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/MultiCam
> 
> http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/b/b1/Future_Force_Warrior_2007.jpg


	20. What Difference Does It Make, Part V

I go to bed around seven and wake up, muzzily to the sound of raised voices.  One is Carver's, and it's so familiar that I almost go back to sleep, but- the other-

I am awake and out of bed, clad only in pajama pants, and down the hall in moments.  My brain is still mostly asleep, but one fact is clear, and that's all I need-

"You think you can just _waltz_ in and out like you own the place, break my brother's heart and then just walk back through the door-"

I blink at the mid-afternoon light coming through the windows, and Carver breaks off mid-tirade as he and Anders realize I'm there.

"Carver-" I say, and my voice is rough with sleep, "Anders _lives_ here.  I asked him to come.  S'ok."

I see Anders relax minutely, but he's looking at me, and I wonder if the same expression of guarded longing is mirrored on my own face.

Carver looks back and forth at the both of us, still in family-defense mode, and finally relaxes.  "Fine," he says, "I'm- gonna go out for a bit.  Just-" he makes scooting motions with his hands, as if pushing us together- "Talk, ok?"  Giving me a pointed look, he says, "About Nan, Garrett."

I nod.  "I will."

He turns to Anders and says, completely serious, "You fuck him up again and I will fuck _you_ up, understand?"  He turns and leaves, and suddenly the house is silent, quiet on a Friday afternoon at one-thirty, and Anders is standing in front of me.  He looks as tired as I feel, clothes wrinkled, unshaven.

"Hi," I say, and knuckle the sleep out of my eyes.

He smiles the tiniest bit and my heart skips a beat.

"Hi," he says, and we stand there for a moment.

"I need coffee," I say, and pad into the kitchen.  He follows, the soft sound of his footsteps comforting.

I get some coffee started, and once the pot has started brewing I turn around.

"So," I say, hands braced against the counter behind me.  "Did you know that I have almost four million dollars?"

Anders goggles at me, and I shrug.  "My grandparents were rich, I don't know if I ever told you- my mother was basically disowned for marrying my dad, the mechanic.  Nan and Grandfather never forgave her, and whenever we visited them they took every opportunity to shower us with gifts, money, expensive things that my parents couldn't afford.  It used to make my mother so sad- it wasn't that she _wanted_ the money, but it was the fact that they were punishing her, over and over, for marrying someone she loved."

I see him swallow, and loosen his tie, but he's listening, so I keep talking.

"When we went to college, Nan paid our way, and when she died, she left everything to the five of us grandkids- Carver, Beth, Day, Charade, and me.  Two million dollars each to five kids, three of whom weren't even in college yet.  My mother was very deliberately left nothing- Uncle Gamlen either, but that's a completely different story.  Aunt Revka had been gone for a few years, so that didn't matter so much."

I get a bagel and slice it in half, popping it into the toaster.  I'm hungry again, suddenly, for more than food, but one step at a time.

"The money was a _weapon_ ," I say, and a hint of the bitterness I feel creeps into my tone.  God, I'd thought I was over this- "You remember Mom- I know she thought of you like one of her own kids- I think she knew I had a crush on you, even back then."  I smile a little and he smiles back.

"She just wanted them to be ok with her choice, to admit that my father was a good, worthy man, which they _knew_ , but damn their stubborn hides-" I swallow.  "Mom was happy for us, happy that we were taken care of, and you know, they had their own house, and everything, so it wasn't like they needed anything.  But they didn't leave her any of the furnishings, none of the family jewelry, heirlooms- nothing.  We divvied it up and Beth bought the estate- she always wanted to live there, god knows what she's going to do with the place.  Day is, ironically enough, a day-trader, and I'm pretty sure his net worth puts mine to shame by now.  Charade and I aren't close, and I haven't seen her for years- I have no idea what she's done with hers."

The bagel pops up and I grab the cream cheese, slathering it on.

"Carver's never touched his money- I've invested it for him, and like my share, it's grown, but he was so angry about it-" I shrug.  "He's never needed it, anyway- the Army pays well."

The coffee's almost done percolating, and I get a cup down, spoon some sugar into it, then pull the creamer out of the fridge.

"As for me- well, I used some of it to build my house.  Not a great big huge place, but it has everything I want, a decent location, quiet, and I own about four acres of woods behind the house.  Everything else I've put into investments or laddered mutual funds, and it's pretty much doubled in the past five years.  I just put the interest back in and let it do its thing- I can live off of what I make from the business."

I pour the coffee and gesture at him questioningly with the pot, and he nods.  I pull down another mug and add cream, no sugar, just the way he likes it.

I hand him the cup and head over to the table, _our_ table, and when he sits down next to me I take a quick breath, in and out, not quite a sob, not quite a sigh.

"The money's never meant anything to me- it's there, and the only positive thing about it is what I can do with it to make the lives of my friends and family easier and more enjoyable.  I didn't _earn_ it," I say bitterly, "I didn't _deserve_ it, and I didn't _ask_ for it.  I was born into the right family and eventually they died, and it came to me.  And what it represented broke my mother's heart."

I take a drink of coffee, and when I look over, he's watching me, and when he puts his hand over mine I close my eyes.

"I'm sorry," he says after a moment, into the silence, and I nod, eyes closed.

"Me too," I say, and his hand tightens around mine.

"I'm not comfortable with people giving me expensive gifts, _especially_ people I'm- involved with," he says, and I nod.

"Ok," I say.  "But-" I take a deep breath- "I'm not comfortable with you just leaving like that, without talking to me, or calling me, or letting me know if or when you'll be back."

He sits, and I look over to see him toying with the side of his coffee mug.  "I've gotten so used to running," he says, and I pick up his hand, bringing it to my lips to kiss his knuckles.  His gaze whips to mine.

"Not from me, please," I say.

"Ok," he says, softly, and it's like the sun coming out from behind the clouds when he gives me a little smile.

*****************************************************************************************

Carver stays for a few weeks before heading back to his current tour of duty- I've lost count of the number of times he's re-enlisted, but it's a career for him, a calling, and he's happy, and that's what matters.  He promises to email me from time to time, and I promise to call Beth if I need family.

I cosign Anders' loan on the Prius, and if he's short for a payment I'll lend him the money until he can pay me back.  But the clinic's doing well, so I don't think he has to worry about it.  He's agreed to let me pay for groceries and things without stressing out- we drink a glass of wine and toast to Nan every once in a while.

I buy another work car, a '69 Firebird that needs restoration from her rusted underbody to her ratty top.  It'll be a lot of work, but it's a labor of love, and a hobby I haven't indulged since Dad died.  I stop by the dealership and leave Sandal the task of rebuilding the engine, and when I'm not overseeing the Vael or Argento jobs I do body and interior work on the car.  She'll be a beauty when she's done- I've already started calling her Feathers.  I'm thinking of her as Anders' car- he can at least have fun driving her if he likes.  I'm hoping that he'll accept her from me, eventually.  It's not about the money, although she'll be worth a pretty penny when I'm done- it's about the work of one's own hands, of giving the person you love something that you've created, about having them accept it in the spirit that it's given- no strings, no ties, nothing owed.

Anders comes out and watches me work on the car- I explain to him what I'm doing, and from time to time he helps, although he's much more likely to just sit and talk.  She's a pretty girl, Feathers, and when I see him run a hand over her frame I can't help but smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feathers:  
> http://bit.ly/qTfhhH
> 
> http://media.motortopia.com/files/941/vehicle/45b3dc7156d5b/bird_00891.jpg
> 
> And that's a wrap of this chapter of _Light_! Hope everyone enjoyed! :)


	21. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Garrett’s fills are characterized by Smith’s songs- Anders' will be named according to Sarah McLachlan songs. His first chapter is titled Fear, after this song:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=of6xe9Ass5Q

Trigger warning- graphic depictions of abuse.

 

 

***********************

I've had this nightmare before, and suddenly, I'm having it again, living it again.  It's been going on for hours, and I have to work tomorrow, but he's awake, jittery, restless, hyperactive, and if he's awake, well, then I am too, because that's how it works.  
    
We're arguing again, Nemis ranting about how the system was broken, how politicians had become corrupt, the injustice that the individual faces against a massive governmental system, and how we needed a reboot, how people needed to rise up, to destroy the oppressor, how a few well-placed bombs could start the revolution.  

You see?  I did listen, really.  There were even some things I agreed with, from time to time, although my idea of change involves a lot more _political process_ and a lot less _blowing things up._   But Nem was never one for half-measures.

I hmm and nod and try to talk him down- he's high, again, and as his tanned skin reddens with righteous fury, blue eyes piercing, voice booming, I watch and wonder how it had come to this.  How had I ever thought I loved this man, or that he loved me back?

It'd been different when we met- _he'd_ been different, or so I'd thought.  I hadn't seen the demon lurking under his skin, had been fooled by the veneer of sophistication, elegance, intensity.  Maybe he was that person, once.  I'd like to believe it.

In all honesty I think it was the meth that changed him, in the end, fueling his anger, leading to the loss of control, over and over again.  They don't tell you about all the wonderful things that meth can do to you, those "friends" who hook you up- not the meth mouth, the deterioration of your skin, the weight loss, the frenzied mood swings, the grandiose delusions, the hyperactivity, the aggressiveness.

I'm a _vet_ , for God's sake.  You'd think as a scientist, as someone intimately acquainted with biology and pharmacology that I'd have been a little smarter.  But you'd be surprised at the things you'll overlook for love.

I carry my half-empty cup of tea into the kitchen, Nem hot on my heels, asking me, over and over if I'm _listening_ to him, am I even paying attention-

I am.  So much so that I trip, the cup slipping out of my hands as I fall to my knees, shattering on the kitchen tile.  I have enough time to think _Oh, shit-_ and then he's on me.

"Can't you do _anything_ right?" he rages, "Breaking the fucking dishes, fucking brilliant, Anders."  He pulls me to my feet, and when his hand raises, I bring up my own arms in defense.

Some part of me crawls inside myself and hides as he begins to strike me, over and over.

"Make another mess for me to clean up while you're off playing with your animals," he growls, and when he shoves me I fall against the counter, thinking vaguely through the adrenaline _fuck, that's going to hurt when this is over.  I hope I didn't crack a rib-_

My mouth is always two steps ahead of my brain, in emergencies, and it's no different now.  "I do most of the work around here _and_ I bring in all the money," I say, my own anger licking at the edges of my consciousness, "How can you even _say_ that to me, Nem?"

"Throw that in my face, you little cocksucker," he hisses, and when his fist connects with my jaw the world goes black for a moment.  "Little bitch.  You're worthless, you know that?  Fucking worthless."

On and on, the same theme, punctuated by slaps, his fists, the words nearly a litany- _I should just leave you, Anders, you fuckup, fucking waste of my time._

"You think I don't know?" he screams, spittle flying, "You think I don't know about how you lie to me, how you visit that little friend of yours, play house with all the little animals?  Are you fucking him, hm?  Is he good?  Do you suck his cock like you do mine?"

Tears run down my face, fire and ice in my veins, rage and sorrow, and in that moment I know that we're broken, completely broken.  Everything's gone wrong, Nem and I, and it's over, done.  

I'd tried so hard to understand- we'd had so much in common, so much shared hurt.  His father had beaten his mother just like my father had done to mine.  We'd understood the shared fear, living in the shadow of the man of the house, tiptoeing around and toeing the line, always toeing the line.  I'd never been good at keeping my mouth shut, and it had cost me, more than once.  When they'd sent me off to military school it'd been the best thing that'd ever happened to me, a chance to get away, to escape.  At least at first.

I'd buried myself in schoolwork and tried not to think about my mother, my sisters, whether or not they were ok without me.  I'd done well, except for my attitude- I've always had a bit of a problem with authority.  I'd run away before every major holiday, saving what little money I could scavenge for bus fare, hitchhiking when I needed to, always heading home.

It'd earned me a fair share of punishment both at home and then at school, my father dragging me back, telling me what a useless son I was.  The last time, when I was twelve, my mother had begged me to stop, to be a good boy, to listen to my father and my teachers.  If I was good, she'd said, Father might let me come home.

For her sake, I tried, and when I was sixteen, he did.

I'd been good for years- toed the line, aced my classes, kept my head down and held my tongue.  Kids came and went at school, some went home, some graduated, some went to jail.  I'd never built up much of a connection to the place, really, and when he let me come home, I threw myself into "normal" high school with a vengeance.

I'd played the good son, the model student, the track star, and when he wasn't looking I snuck out with the kind of kids I'd come to know in military school, the "bad" crowd.  Not the really bad ones, mind you, because they'd have nothing to do with me, or the image of me that I'd created.  I'd made friends with the misfits, the strange ones, the loners, the ones who, like me, kept their grades up and their mouths shut.

Admittedly we spent most of our time together exploring all the wonderful things you can do with two (or more) bodies.  During my last two years of high school, I lost my virginity, smoked pot for the first and last time, dated a cheerleader and fucked most of the tenor section in the show choir.  (It's not that I had a thing for tenors- purely coincidence, I swear.)  I wore a different mask for each person- one for my father, one for my mother, one for my church, a multitude of faces for my lovers and teachers and "friends."  

I took two boys and two girls to prom, and my parents sniffled when we took pictures because they thought my dates were dating each other and that _I_ was the odd one out, poor studious Anders who hadn't managed to line up a date.  I slept with each boy separately and both girls together before the night was out, and when I got home my mother patted me on the shoulder and told me not to worry, that _someday_ I'd find someone who really loved me.

I'd come out as bi to my parents in college, once I was safely ensconced at Yale, the scholarship paying my way, my part-time work as a TA for Karl paying for the little things I wanted.  My father had raged and my mother had wept, Father condemning me as an "ungrateful little catamite" while Mother wept and prayed for the state of my immortal soul.

God and I have had an understanding since childhood- I try, mostly, to be a good person, and since he hasn't struck me down yet I'm hoping that means He's ok with the state of my soul.  I am who He made me, and I figure if anyone understands why I do the things I do it's Him.

I come back to the present, thinking vaguely _huh, your life really CAN flash before your eyes, that's new-_

"Enough," I say, and he pauses, staring at me in disbelief.  "I've had enough, Nem."  I struggle to my feet, pushing him away, stepping back, away from the glass crunching under his boots.  I don't have shoes on.  "We're done."

He stares at me, and then his face darkens, and when he yanks open a drawer and pulls out a kitchen knife I wonder if this is it.

"I'll see you dead first," he growls, "You're mine, Anders, and I won't let you run off with your little boyfriend."

I grab the first thing that comes to hand- a phone book- and throw it at him.  I nearly giggle, thinking, _oh, yeah, throw the book at him, Anders, God, at least those damn things are good for SOMETHING-_

He stumbles, off-balance, and slips on the wet tile, falling onto the shards of glass, the broken cup.

And in the next second I'm running, running for the door, out, away, _ohGODohGODohGOD-_

I don't know what to do.  I make it as far as the Hanged Man, and Nem's not here yet, but he always comes, eventually.  Maybe the fall and the glass threw him.  But I've got to get out of here, somewhere, anywhere, I don't care, but I can't go back, I can't.

I pull out my phone with shaking hands- fuck, it's three in the morning, and there's really only one person I can call.

It takes three attempts before my shaking fingers cooperate and dial him, and after two rings- _pick up-_ three rings- _pick up, please,_ four rings- _oh God, pick up Garrett, please-_

"Anders?" comes the familiar voice, slurred with sleep, and I nearly cry with relief.

"Garrett-" I get out, and then my throat closes up.

"Anders?" he says, and I hear it in his voice, that sexy tenor voice, as he wakes up, because there's only one reason I'd be calling at this hour- "Anders, where are you?"

 _Thank God_ , and I try to say 'the Hanged Man," but I can't get past the lump in my throat.

"Anders," he says, "Tell me where you are."  He's angry, yes, but not at me, never at me, and I can barely talk through the _relief-_

"I'm in the parking lot of the Hanged Man," I whisper.  "I'm so sorry, Garrett."

He makes an inarticulate noise over the phone before asking, "Did he hurt you- are you all right?"

 _Almost,_ I think.   _I almost didn't walk away, this time._   

"Just a few bruises," I say.

I hear him moving, the phone knocking up against his ear and he's silent, but _thank God,_ he's coming to get me, my knight in shining armor (minus the armor, of course), Garrett Hawke.

"I'll be there in a few minutes," he says, and I hear the faint jingle of keys.  "Stay out of sight.  Stay _safe,_ Anders," he says, gruffly, and when he hangs up I bite my lip.

Then I go hide in the shadows behind the dumpster, and wait.

At 3:14 he pulls into the parking lot, and I peek around the corner to see Baby's familiar sky-blue, light against the dark of the pavement and the early morning.

I jump up and run for the door, fumble with the handle, and when I get in, hands shaking, he's staring at me.   _I must look like shit._

"Anders, Jesus, what is it, are you hurt-" he says, and _hurt_ doesn't even begin to cover it, but it's not that kind of a hurt, just a few bruises, this time.  This time.

"Just drive, please," I whisper, because I can't, can't talk about it, yet, not without completely losing it, breaking down.

He drives, and I look over and notice that he's just wearing jeans and a coat, chest bare, warm skin and dark hair, and I suddenly realize adrenaline's kicking in, and fight-or-flight has suddenly become flight-and-fuck.

 _This is GARRETT,_ I remind myself, _the one person you haven't managed to drive away over the last decade.  Don't fuck it up, Anders._

I grab the blanket in back when he quietly mentions it- comforting, warm, slightly scratchy in the way that wool blankets in cars always are.  No one ever keeps a comfortable blanket in the car, no goose-down duvets or soft knitted things.  My mind is in all kinds of places and when I come back to myself he's handed me a bag of food.

I stare at it, because only Garrett would try to solve something of this magnitude with a cheeseburger.

It _does_ smell good, actually.

"Anders," he says, "when did you eat last?"

Eat?  That was earlier, before, what time is it and how long were we fighting?  I honestly don't know.  "Um-"

"If you have to think about it, it's been too long," he says.  "My mother would be force-feeding you by now, you know."

Leandra- as much as I love my own mother, Lea was the kind of mom everyone wants to have.  I'd only met her a handful of times before the accident, but she'd clucked and fussed and smiled and told me I needed to eat more.  She'd asked Garrett if he was seeing anyone, and the easy way that she completely accepted, knew, understood that he was gay, and that was fine, because he'd find a nice boy sooner or later, someone who'd really love him.

She glanced at me and I smiled back, awkwardly, wishing that my own family was half as understanding.

We eat, the quiet of the car, the two of us, alone, an oasis of time and space, calm in the midst of the storm that is my life.  Garrett's always been that for me, whether he knows it or not.

He turns off the light and we sit, listening to the music.  My jaw aches and my ribs hurt, but I've had worse.

"So," he says, finally, "What happened to make you run out of there without your shoes?"

Shoes?  I look down and suddenly realize I'm not wearing any.  Huh.  Trust Garrett to notice.

I don't know how much to say, how to explain.  "We were fighting," I say at last, "about politics or something equally stupid."  What a stupid thing to get in a fistfight about.  Things that will probably never change, things that I can't do anything about, things that Nem will never really be able to change, because he's a meth addict and a son of a lifelong politician.  Stupid.  I can't stop the laugh that comes from somewhere, but it doesn't feel like a good laugh.  "He was high, and angry, and the more I tried to calm him down the angrier he got.  He-"

 _I loved you, Nem._   Oh, God, I'm losing it-

Garrett takes my hand, my anchor, my safe harbor.  Somehow I continue, "He hit me, and I told him I was leaving, for good this time, that I'd had enough."

Garrett takes in a breath, and I want to laugh again.   _You were always right, Garrett.  You told me to leave him, report him, years ago, and I didn't.  I wanted to save him, save_ us, _and I couldn't._

"Anders," he says, "that's fantastic-"

He doesn't understand, doesn't get it, that I've failed again, made the same mistake, over and over, running away, running back, running in place and getting nowhere.  His _fantastic_ is my agony, so I finish it, tell him the whole truth, show him the true colors of the person I'd thought I'd loved.  "And then he pulled a knife on me, and told me that he'd kill me if I tried to leave, that no one else could have me, and that he'd see me dead first-"

The hand on mine tightens before he lets go, and when I look over he looks- _wrathful_ , like a graven image of Saint Michael I'd seen in a cemetery when my grandmother died, sword in hand, scales in the other.

"I will fucking _kill_ him before he can touch you," he says, "I will _kill_ him, Anders, I swear-"  I freeze because some part of me wants that, the darkness in him, and I remember my mother teaching me Saint Michael's prayer,

 _Swiety Michale Archaniele, bron nas w walce, a przeciw niegodziwosci i zasadzkom zlego ducha badz nam obrona..._

Saint Michael Archangel, defend us in battle and be our shield against the wickedness and snares of the devil-

He looks over at me and something in his face changes, from wrath to apology in a moment, and then he puts his head into his hands.  "Sorry," he whispers, "You don't need another violent crazy bastard in your life right now."

I start to laugh, and with the laughter comes the tears, because it's _Garrett,_ and if there's one violent crazy bastard that I need, it's him.  I tell him as much while I try to catch my breath, and I can't, and now I'm _really_ losing it-

He comes around to my side of the car and pulls me out of the front seat moments later, pushing me into the back, and when he crawls in with me and puts his arms around me I can't hold it in anymore.

"Why-" I manage to get out, because if anyone knows, it's Garrett, "Why do I keep ending up with these bastards? Is it me?" I whisper, because there's a common element in all my relationships, _me_ , "Is there something wrong with me that-"

"No," he says, fiercely, and I listen to the beat of his heart, safe, safe.  "No, no, Anders, it's _not_ you.  God knows you have shitty taste-" _Isn't_ that _an understatement-_ "But it's not you.  You're brilliant, kind, gorgeous- you're everything anyone could wish for."

My breath stops in my throat, because he's never said anything like that to me before, ever.  I have to look at him, have to see if the words and tone are mirrored on his face, or if I'm just lying to myself-

He smoothes his thumbs over my face, feather-light, and the look in his eyes, _oh, oh God, Garrett-_

He whispers to me, "Everything I could wish for," and when he kisses me lightly I gasp.

He goes completely still, and in the silence I feel his lips, soft on mine, and I can't think, can't breathe.  Between him and I- this is new, yes, but the dance, the steps, oh, I've been doing _this_ for years-

I pull him close and lap at his mouth with mine, and he moans my name.

How did I miss this?  

When he sucks on my lip, I simply wonder how ever lived without it.  He makes such sexy, soft sounds, sweet Garrett, with a warrior's heart and an artist's soul, body warm, and when my fingers find his chest I remember that he's not wearing a shirt.

 _Oh, God-_

Soft skin over firm muscle, the wiry dusting of dark hair, nipples hardening under my touch, and how on earth did I miss this?

I pull away a bit, and when he looks at me, beautiful brown eyes full of emotion, I have to know-

"Garrett," I manage, "you never _said_ anything-"

"I wanted to," he says, "but every time I turned around you already had someone else, and I didn't want to interfere-"   _Fuck, fuck me, fuck it all, I could have had this, him-_

"How long," I say, _how long have you been hiding this from me?  How long have I been waiting for you?_

"Since the day we met," he says, and I groan because damn it, it wasn't right then, I was with Karl, but _seven fucking years_ , and hell, it's not exactly right _now_ , but I can't resist, can't stop, and when I realize he's hard, wanting, I push him back.

It's been so long, months since Nem last had me, and months before that since I last wanted him.  And this is so good, fumbling with clothing in the dark, desperate breaths and _need_ and _want-_

His cock is in my hand, hard and so, so good, and when he touches me, curls his hand around me, I stare, because I've never seen anything so beautiful, his back arched underneath me, hips thrusting into my hand, his eyes on mine, and when he comes, eyes closing as he bucks under me, gasping, he pulls me with him over the edge and I come, crying out something that's almost his name, _Garrett, oh, God, Garrett._

The windows of the car are fogging with our breath, and we sit for a few moments, together, and God, somehow it's wonderful.  Garrett moves, wiping us off with the blanket, and I sigh when his hands ghost up my legs, my body.  He pulls me tight, hugs me, the simple affection nearly undoing me.  

How long has it been since someone _hugged_ me?

But this- as much as I want it, want him, my hands are empty.  I have nothing to offer, nothing to give, The Smiths echoing my feelings- I want this to last forever, this moment, because when it ends and he goes home, and I-

 _I never never want to go home  
Because I haven't got one  
No, I haven't got one_

I have no idea what to do next.  But in this moment, for now, this beautiful man is holding me, his head resting against the beat of my heart.

"Garrett," I say, and I don't know what else to say, but I have to say something, do _something-_

"Come home with me," he says, quietly, and my pulse jumps.  If only it were that easy.  If only I deserved this- but I'm worthless, fucking worthless, a waste of his time- he could do so much _better_ than me-

He starts talking again, quiet, intense- "I didn't mean to- spring this on you.  Just come home with me, and be safe, and we can get your clothes and things, set you up in your own place, with Pounce and Warden and Wiggums, although Mabs will miss them-"

Oh, God.  How can I say no to this, to him, such a seductive idea, safety, affection, being happy for just a little while, at least until he realizes what a terrible idea this is.

I thread my fingers though his thick, dark hair, nearly black, and give him a gentle tug- _Look at me, Garrett, you don't want this._   But he looks so- vulnerable, suddenly, and God, seven years we've known each other.  Seven years where he's been wanting this, even if he doesn't know who I really am, and what a piss-poor deal he'd be getting.

His breath catches as we stare at each other, and whatever else I am, I'm still a man, and I can't resist him, and so I bend down and kiss him, such soft lips, warm and willing and _Garrett._

"I love you," he whispers, and it drops in my stomach like a leaden weight, "I've always loved you, and I can't _stand_ to see you be hurt any more-"  Garrett, I can't give you what you want, what you need, you don't _understand_ , but he's hurting, and I can't say it, can't break his heart the way he's breaking mine without even knowing it.  I can't, so I pull him close, taking comfort in this simple embrace, and at least for a while I can pretend that I can do this, can have this, can be this.

And as the music plays an errant thought wanders through- maybe, just maybe, it could work.

"All right," I say, and he kisses me again, once, twice, soft brushes of lips full of feeling.  I move off of him and we get back in the front, driving in the quiet and the dark to Garrett's beautiful house, the porch light dimly illuminating the wood and the trees.

Mabs meets us at the door, and I give her a head-rub as we get in the house.  She jumps just a bit, such a good girl, big and sweet like her owner.

"Down, Mabs," I say, and when she gives me a Look I can't help but laugh a little.  Pounce is trying to trip me in the way that cats do, and I pick him up, giving him a cuddle as he starts to purr loudly.

Garrett is moving around the house, locking the door, getting a _bat_ from the closet with a look that makes me shiver and think of Saint Michael again.  I don't know what to do so I sit on the couch and try and divide the attention of two hands amongst three cats, Wiggums settling on my lap while Pounce prances back and forth, Ward meowing forlornly if I stop petting under his chin.

I hear the water start in the bathroom and Garrett comes out, pulling me to my feet, pulling me into the bathroom and into the shower with him.  It was one thing to see him, to touch him in the close dark of the car- in the shower, warm, wet, naked, beautiful- I _ache_ with wanting him, the darkness in me driving me to push him against the tile and kiss him, skin against skin, his fingers in my hair.  It's too soon to go again, and I'm oddly afraid, a little, of actually making love to him, something much more intimate than a frenzied experience in the back seat of his car, but this- a touch that holds no pain, nothing but affection- this, I crave, like a drug.

We find our way to bed, the bedside light still on, and when I curl up on his shoulder, his arm around my waist, the exhaustion of the day catches up to me.  I can't keep my eyes open, but it's ok, for the first time in a long time, and when he whispers to me that I'm wonderful, beautiful, amazing, I don't have the energy to tell him the truth.

We wake up, much later, and I call work- thankfully Steven is taking care of the animals, and I explain the situation briefly, assuring them that I'll be back on Monday.  Dr. Steve unnerves some of our pet owners at first, but while he's big and quiet and hard to read, he's good with animals and absolutely falls apart around kittens.  It's something to see.

At Garrett's urging I call the cops and file a report- oh, God, it's over _at last-_

He comes with me to the apartment to get my things, and when Nem comes out into daylight it's like a punch to the gut.  He looks tired and remorseful, like he always does, but the cop asks him to stand outside while I throw my things together.  I don't talk to him, can't, because it is done, we are _done_ , and I won't listen to him try to explain how sorry he was, how it wouldn't happen again, how he'd change, because if I did, the next time there might not be a phone book to throw-

And Garrett is waiting, for me.

When I come out I see him striding away from Nem, and I don't know what was said but the vindictive part of me likes seeing fear on Nem's face for a change.  He takes one of the boxes and we head towards the car.

"Any more?" he says, and I hand him the box of books, huffing slightly.  I'm not a weakling but I don't work out- I have the physique nature gave me and irregular eating habits keep me trim.  Heavy lifting wears me out, but Garrett carries it easily, taking the box from me and packing it into the car.  

"That's- the last of it," I say, and he waves to the police that we're done, getting an answering nod.

"Let's go home," he says, and a small part of me thrills at the thought.  Home, us.  Together.

I put my hand on his thigh as he backs the car out, because I can, and when he looks over at me, smiling, my heart twists just a little bit.

"Love you," he says, and I smile back.  I don't know what comes next, what this means, what insanity has possessed me to think that this could work, but an old friend of my mother, a crazy, wizened old Polish lady once said to me:  "Do not hesitate to leap- it is only when you fall that you learn whether you can fly."

This is that moment, and although I'm afraid to move forward, I can't go back.  He takes my hand in his.

I bring it to my lips for a kiss, and leap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saint Michael:  
> http://bit.ly/nSLJoF
> 
> Garrett’s house:  
> http://activerain.com/image_store/uploads/6/9/7/6/3/ar124992604736796.JPG


	22. Push, Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a retelling of _Unloveable_ from Anders' POV and is inspired by Sarah McLachlan's song _Push_ : http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WRkqUMMvGj4

We get back to Garrett's house a half-hour later, and unload the car.  It feels awkward, unloading the sad contents of my life, four boxes and two garbage bags full in front of him, but for now I'm out of ideas, out of options.  Garrett puts Mabs out back and the cats in the bathroom, and we cart everything inside.  

"Should I-" _unpack?_   Is this a temporary thing?  Maybe I should just leave everything until I can get an apartment-

"Um," he says, as thrown as I am, "I know this must be kind of crazy, for you."

I laugh a little bit- talk about an understatement.  "It's not every day I get out of one relationship and into another in the space of hours- well, not since high school, anyway-"

"Going to get out the pictures again?"  Back when we'd first met, when he'd helped me move up to Medford, we'd sat down with pizza and beer (well, I'd drunk beer.  Garrett had nursed a single bottle, looking disgruntled) and some of my old albums, and we'd laughed over all the old awkward high school pictures, the long hair I'd sported, the ridiculous notes people write in yearbooks (scrawled phone numbers and "Keep in touch!"  But of course we hadn't- no one ever does.)  

I smirk.  "Come on, Garrett, not everyone can take four people to prom at once."

He shakes his head, a smile at the corner of his mouth.  "You're a kinky bastard, I'll give you that."

The little half-smile does things to me, adrenaline, relief, emotion- I close the distance between us and run my fingers up the soft cotton of his shirt, tightly fitted over the muscles of his chest.  Kinky?  "Oh, you have no idea," I reply, and really, he doesn't.  

When his fingers slide under my shirt, pulling it loose, warm fingers on my skin, I sigh.  This is simple, no words, no decisions- simply feeling, being, letting everything else dissolve into sensation.  When he kisses me I close my eyes and sink into it, the soft press of lips, tongue, desire licking through me.  This I can do.

When he pulls away I look up into concerned, conflicted brown eyes.  

"Anders," he says, "You can stay here as long as you want, or we can go find you a place of your own this afternoon.  You can unpack your stuff and put it anywhere you'd like, or leave it, or we can put it in storage.  You're not- obligated to be with me, whatever my feelings are.  I'm here for you, in whatever capacity you need me to be."

He's struggling a bit, earnest, honest Garrett.  I can't help but wish that he'd simply fall into this with me, no words, no discussion, just us, two warm bodies and a place to stay, but that's not what he wants.

He's always been too good for me, the kind of man who deserves the stereotypical American Dream- a house, a family, two-point-five kids and a dog.  And now I'm a part of that- he's going to try and fit me in, somehow, even if I'm the square peg in a round hole.

I don't know what to say, but he's waiting for me to _say something_ \- "Garrett, I-I don't know what I want.  This morning I just wanted to get away, and God knows you've always been there for me.  I just never-" _I never thought I could have this-_

"I thought you didn't think about me that way, so I didn't either-" I pause, and in the next moment he's speaking, filling the silence with a torrent of words-

"You can have the spare room, for your stuff, if you want.  And if you want to sleep there, that's fine too, although if you want to stay with me- You're obviously more than welcome to," he says.

I've never seen him like this- he's always been confident, always smiling and cracking jokes, always in control of the situation.  Even though he was younger, in the one year we spent in college together people flocked around him, drawn in by that easy confidence, Garrett Hawke, self-assured, self-made, a working man in the midst of adult children, trust-fund babies who'd never fixed a broken pipe or roofed a house or changed a tire.

And now he's standing in front of me, fumbling for words and staring at his shoes, uncertain, vulnerable.

"I don't think I've ever seen you like this," I say, smiling in spite of myself, "It's endearing."

"I'm a lot smoother in my head," he mutters, sounding so much like his little brother that I can't help but laugh.

"Garrett Hawke, successful entrepreneur, rescuer of friends in need, handyman extraordinaire, brought low at last!  And here I was beginning to think that you did everything well."

"I have my weak spots," he answers, and I realize suddenly that for all his confidence, in the seven years we've known each other, he's never been seriously involved with anyone.

"And how delighted I am to find that I am apparently one of them," I say, pulling him down for another kiss.

Somehow, the fact that he's as unsure as I am is oddly comforting.  I've had one bad relationship after another, but he's hardly been with anyone- in this, at least, we're equal.

"I'll take the spare room," I say, "For my stuff."  I have to admit, at the moment I don't really care about the boxes-

My phone rings and I bite back a curse- it's the clinic.  I flip open my phone and answer- it's Lirene, and Mrs. Badcrumble is in again with Fluffy, another case of indigestion, and she's just _positive_ it's his kidneys, and he's _dying_ , and-

I sigh and look at Garrett while Lirene gives me an earful.  "Again?" I say, and Garrett gives me a nod before walking down the hall to his office.  "Fine, put her on," I say, and resign myself to spending the next half-hour on the phone.

"Dr. Haugen!" she shrills in my ear, and as I watch Garrett's retreating back, I wonder momentarily if I could just 'accidentally' drop the call.

A half-hour later I hang up, and turning to the boxes, resign myself to unpacking.  Not what I'd _like_ to be doing, but Garrett's probably in the middle of something by now, and I'm sure he wouldn't appreciate the interruption.

I move the boxes into the little spare room with the twin bed, dresser, and end tables, and pull my clothes out of the garbage bags, hanging them up.  Thankfully they're not too wrinkled, otherwise I'd have to spend a couple of hours ironing.  I _hate_ ironing.  I put the boxes of books aside for now- I don't need them, and something in me resists unpacking entirely.

I drop my razor and shaving cream in the bathroom- _dammit_ , forgot my toothbrush.  I'll have to get another.  When I unpack my laptop I realize that I've left the power cable back at Nem's, and add it to my mental list of things to buy.  It'd have to be made of fucking diamond for me to go back for it.

I can feel my mood turning dark- it's setting in, the fact that this is my life, now, everything I had, everything I've taken with me, everything I've left behind- this is what I have, four boxes and two garbage bags full of stuff, living in a borrowed room, a borrowed life.  I feel restless, suddenly- it's a poor fit, like trying to buy a shirt off the rack, something not made for me, not meant for me.

I walk back into the hall, the shadows lengthening as afternoon gives way to evening, and at the movement behind me, a blur, I freeze.  I'm in a different place, a different set of circumstances, Nem behind me, quiet and menacing, he was always so damn _quiet_ -

He yelps, and I realize _it's Garrett_ , I tell myself, over and over, trying to breathe.

"Jesus, you startled me," he says, voice quiet in the darkness, and the hall is too close, he's too close, and I can't breathe-

"What-" he says, and when the hand reaches out for me, I can't stop the automatic reaction, _no, no, please-_

He stops, suddenly, and a hot wave of shame washes over me.   _It's Garrett,_ I know that, and I know he won't hurt me, wouldn't hurt me, but my heart is in my throat, panic creeping over me, and now he can _see_ exactly how fucked-up I am-

"Anders, are you ok?" he asks, and I'd laugh if I could, because I'm not, and he knows it, and I know it.

"Fine," I manage, finally, drawing in a breath, and then another- small spaces never bothered me when I was younger, but now, it feels like I'm being cornered, trapped-

"I won't hurt you," he whispers, and the hurt in his voice galvanizes me to turn, to run.   _I can't do this, Garrett.  God knows I want to, but I can't._   I'll just go, catch a bus to the clinic, sleep there and come back for my stuff when I get an apartment.  I just need to get my shoes on-

He's right behind me, his hands on my arms, pulling me up.

"Stop," he says, "Don't run, Anders."   _Running's the only thing I've ever been good at, Garrett-_

"I'm no good for you," I grit out, "I'm broken inside- you need someone normal. Someone who's not so fucked-up-"

"Fuck _that_ ," he says, "I've wanted you for years, Anders, and I know what they did to you.  I was there, remember?"

And he was- he'd driven up, breaking the speed limit when Alaric had put me in the hospital, the only person who'd come to visit me, had sat with me as I'd given a statement to the police.  Had picked me up so many times over the years, had always kept it together, been the one person I could count on without fail.  I can't give him what he wants from me, but maybe, at least, I can explain.

"It's like there's two people inside me," I say, "the normal one, the one you went to school with, the one who goes to work, the one who gets me through the day-to-day.  Then there's the other one, the one that's scared and angry and so fucked-up he can't even stop being afraid of the best thing that's ever happened to him-"

His eyes are wide and dark, serious, and when he nudges me against the wall I struggle not to react.  But this is a different person, a different place, and I'm safe, I've always been safe with him, so I fight through it, fight to meet his gaze.

"Look at me," he says, carefully.  "Look at me, Anders."

I meet his eyes.

"I- don't- care," he says, slowly, deliberately.  "You're my best friend and the man I've been in love with for years, and whatever you're feeling, whatever you need to do, it's ok.  I-"

He turns away, expression suddenly bitter- "I should have said something, years ago.  I should have done something.  But I didn't, because I was so afraid that you'd push me out of your life, so I just stood by and let them hurt you, because I was too much of a coward-"

A coward, Garrett?

"Garrett," I can't believe I'm asking this, "Are you blaming _yourself_ for my asshole boyfriends?"

"No," he answers, "I'm blaming myself for not doing more to protect you-"

As if it was his job to look after me, to protect a grown man from his own abysmal choices.

"Garrett," I remind him, "You tried.  I remember when you called the cops on Nem- I remember every time you picked me up, took me to the hospital, every time you sat and listened to me cry over that fucking worthless piece of shit-"

"I nearly went crazy after that," he says, "before you came by with Pounce.  I was half-convinced you hated me, and the other half was constantly worried that you didn't call because he'd killed you and hidden your body somewhere-"

I'm suddenly picturing Nem as a character from the movie _Fargo_ , putting my body through a wood-chipper.   _Nem wouldn't even know how to_ use _a wood-chipper,_ and I'm so amused in a macabre sort of way that I can't help but laugh.

"Ok, that's a bit melodramatic," he says, and I snicker, "but I was scared, scared for you and scared that you'd never talk to me again."

Garrett's so honest and open, in ways that I can't even _begin_ to match, so I hug him, and we stand there for a moment, letting the emotion and adrenaline filter away until all that's left is us.

"Sorry," I say after a moment, and I'm not sure whether I'm apologizing for making him worry, all those months ago, or for my knee-jerk reactions here and now- maybe both.

"You have nothing to be sorry for," he says, and how quick he is to forgive, "Although- maybe you should- talk to someone?"  

In my head, I know he's right, and reasonable, but for a moment it stings, to know that he thinks I need help.  And I do, I know it, but a small part of me wishes that I could hide all of this darkness from him, could put the mask back on and be the Anders he thinks he's been in love with for years.

He continues quickly into the silence building between us- "I know someone- a really great guy, helped me a lot after Mom and Dad died.  Not that you have to, but maybe it'd help, you know, if there're things you'd rather not tell me, but if you want to, that's ok too-"

"Garrett," I say, "You're babbling again."

"Yes," he answers, miserably.

"-I'll think about it," I say, because he's right, and because he deserves that much from me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Fargo_ , woodchipper scene:  
> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8qWFhDvURLg


	23. Push, Part II

"So," he asks me as we pull back from one another, "Everything ok at work?"

I tell him about Mrs. Badcrumble, who, I'm half-convinced, comes in to see _me_ , Fluffy her convenient excuse.  Not that I'm not flattered, sort of, that she'd pay thirty bucks to have me perform a cursory examination on a perfectly healthy Pomeranian and have her talk my ear off about her family and church events and volunteering and _aren't_ I just the nicest young man, and shouldn't I find a nice girl to settle down with, and if I came with her to the next event she was sure she could introduce me to-

But maybe I'm imagining it, or she's simply lonely, or- I don't know.  The last time I'd come into work with a shiner and looked him over, she'd tightened her lips.  Mrs. Badcrumble and Fluffy, my guardian angels.  I can't hold back a smile at the thought.

"Is he all right?" Garrett says, a look in his eye, and I come back to the guardian angel standing in front of me.  Such a softie, Garrett, and I tell him so, something in me warming, chasing away the last of the adrenaline and fear.

"Are they ok with you taking a few days off?" he asks.

"I took today off," I answer, "But I have Saturday and Sunday off anyway.  I'll head back in on Monday."

He frowns.  "You need a car."

I do, but-  I hold back a sigh.  Everything happens in threes, it seems, and between Lirene getting ready to quit for the imminent arrival of her baby, this fiasco with Nem, and the clinic equipment I'd just replaced...  Well, let's just say that now isn't the best time for me to have to buy a car.  Hell, I'm still making the last few payments on the car I'd had before Nem had wrecked it, months ago.  Insurance covered most of it, but-

"You can use mine for now, but we should get you something."

"You'd trust me behind the wheel of your Baby?" I'm teasing him, but I'm touched- I know how much she means to him.

"Of course.  It's just a car," he says, unconvincingly, and I can't help but smile.  Garrett'd give you his kidney and swear that he really, truly didn't need it- he's just that kind of man.

"No she's not," I say, and when he winces, caught, I want to kiss him with a sudden urgency that surprises me.

"She's not," he admits, "But if I don't trust you with her then I end up like Varric- moodily obsessing over an inanimate object."

"Varric?" I ask- unusual name, that.

"My printer," he says, "And in fact I need to go pick up my new cards.  Want to come with?"

We head over to the printers', and I meet the man himself, a short, muscled guy with an easy smile and an obsession with his car.  It's a pretty car, I suppose- very...curvy?  I don't know what superlatives one uses with a car.

There's a moment of awkwardness when Garrett introduces us- the lengthened pause that tells me he doesn't know what this is, what we are, any more than I do.  The printer looks back and forth between us, and after giving Garrett a Look he stares at me.

I get the sudden feeling that to become this man's enemy would be a very, very Bad Thing.

Garrett chats with him for a while, and then hands me one of the new business cards.  It's beautiful, I have to admit, and for a moment I toy with the thought of getting something made up for the clinic.  But it'll have to wait, for now.

 

When we head out, I can't help but ask- "Interesting guy- but is it healthy to be that attached to your car?"

"Bianca's a special lady," he answers, "but Varric may possibly take it a bit farther than I'd be comfortable with.  She was one of the last cars Dad and I restored."

"Ah," I say, "She's very pretty- very shiny, and, uh, curvy."  Nem always expected me to enthuse about any interest of his- he was either hurt or angry, or both, if I failed to comment.  I know this is different, but I'm supposed to share his interests, right?  Or be supportive, or something.

When Father came home from work, my mother always put on her own mask, standing to the side, hair done and clothing changed, apron on and smile plastered on her face.  She'd lined us up, all of us, spit-shined and silent, because that's what we did, a chorus of "Welcome home, Father," as was expected.  She'd sit him down with a drink and take his coat, shooing us off to some silent pursuit while she asked him about work, as if a day spent hunched over paperwork could be of any interest to a nearly illiterate stay-at-home mother who spent her days cooking, cleaning, taking care of children, watching TV and going to church.

I realize suddenly that I've never really seen a relationship done _right_ except on TV, and maybe those few moments I witnessed between Malcolm and Leandra.  

He laughs and turns to me.  "You don't have to suddenly subscribe to Car and Driver," he says, and when he kisses me it's unexpected, wonderful.

Did I mention that Garrett is an _amazing_ kisser?

I moan, because fear or not, he feels so good, so right, and _want_ is quickly becoming _need_ , and he's trembling, slightly, against me.

He pulls back and sighs.  "Redeeming characteristics indeed," he says, and I laugh.  

If there's a polar opposite of every man who's ever been in my life, it's Garrett.   _You don't have to subscribe to Car and Driver,_ he says, giving me the freedom, for the first time, to simply be myself when I'm with him.

It's a silly, stupid moment, a little thing, but in that second, with that kiss, I fall for him.

 _Oh, God, no._

"Keep that up, and I'll start to think you just want my body," I say, glibly, because I can't say anything else.

 _Oh, God._   

"Do I ever," he says, and I smirk, putting on a mask, because I can't- can't do this yet.   _Stupid, stupid.  Got a handful of fresh bruises from the last person I fell for and I'm already falling for someone else._

"Want a sandwich?" he says.  "I'm starving."  I push it all back down, pull the mask firmly in place and smile, just for now.  Keep it light, fun, flirty.  Just for now.

"Don't you ever cook?" I tease him, because I've seen the sad contents of his pantry- threw out a loaf of moldy bread this morning.

"Not if I can help it, no," he says with a rakish grin.  "But if you want to, be my guest.  I don't have a lot in the way of groceries, though."

We get back to the house and start to eat.  A knock at the door heralds the arrival of a short, slight girl with black hair and the widest green eyes I've ever seen, confidently holding Mabs' leash, and when she starts to speak, I'm charmed by the accent.

Garrett introduces us and tosses her the extra sandwich, inviting her to sit and eat with us.  She prattles on about her studies, polite and friendly when Garrett hands her an envelope with her pay.

"Keep up the hard work," he says, "I'm sure something will come up soon- I'd hire you in a minute, but-"

"You already have, Garrett," she smiles at him.

"For office stuff, I mean, not dog-walking," he answers.  

"You don't need an office assistant," she says, eyes crinkling adorably at the corners.

"And that is the crux of the problem," he replies, showing her out.

I'm considering- she's smart, friendly, good with Mabs...  Garrett doesn't need an office assistant- but I do.  And if he'd recommend her-

"Charming girl," I prompt him.

"She is," he answers.  "She's brilliant, but not exactly a people person.  Better with animals and ancient history, I think.  She's been looking for full-time work for a while now, but people assume that because she's Welsh that she'll up and leave as soon as she gets her doctorate, and well, the job market is tight- It's like having another little sister," he says.

Always collecting strays and turning them into family.  I'd known that about him when I'd brought him the cats, but I'd never quite realized how he did the same with people until now.

"You know, our receptionist just gave notice at the clinic- she's expecting and wants to stay at home with the baby.  If you'd vouch for her-"

"She'd be perfect," he says, and the hopeful look on his face is the best thing I've seen all day.  "Anders, that'd be fantastic-"

"Give me her number and I'll give her a call later," I say, and his smile steals my breath.

"Oh-" he hesitates.  "Um, you guys don't do mandatory drug-testing, do you?"

Oh, hell.

"Look, she doesn't do anything hard," he says, placatingly,  "She just smokes weed every now and again- but she's one of the most dependable people I know-"

"Garrett," I say, and he sighs.

"I know it's a touchy subject, what with Nemis-" _Don't._

"You don't know," I burst out.  "And God, I hope you never do."  Sure, it's just pot _now,_ for all that he knows.  But I run a business, and I need to depend on the people I hire.  Nem stopped working two years ago because he couldn't hold down a fucking job to save his life- too many "sick" days, too many outbursts, quitting before they could fire him for failing the drug tests.  

Haven't I had enough of this?

But the look on his face, pleading-

"Anders," he says, "It's not my thing- you know I don't touch drugs of any kind.  Mom would've killed me.  But Merrill's a good kid, and weed isn't the same as meth.  I'd vouch for her in a heartbeat, and if you give her a shot I promise you won't be disappointed.  She's been walking Mabs every day for a year and a half now, and she's never missed a day, never made any excuses, always cleans up the yard and takes care of the litterboxes.  She's a good girl," he finishes.

Fuck.  Everything in me is saying no, but this is Garrett asking, and am I really in a position to refuse him?

"Fine," I say, finally, "I'll give her a call, and if she's interested I'll give her a month's trial period.  But if she comes to work under the influence even once-"

"She won't," he says, and I nod.   _At least I'll be able to say that I warned him when I have to fire her._

He stands up, stretching, t-shirt riding up to show a bit of gloriously bare belly, dark hair trailing down, derailing my thoughts.  "I need to get back to work on those sketches for the Vael project," He says, then pulls out Baby's keys and his wallet.

"If you want to pick up some groceries-" he hands me both, and then tells me the PIN.

"That's-"

"Your birthday," he says with an embarrassed smile.  "So I never forget."

He's always called me on my birthday, taken me out to dinner when we could manage it.  I pull him down for a kiss, saying, "Just for that, you get a trial period for your little Welsh girl _and_ dinner."

I brush my lips against his before pulling him close, nudging his head back so that I can kiss his neck, running my fingers up his sides.  He makes a little sound of desire that goes straight through me, like lightning.   _Tonight, then_ , because I'll be damned if I can wait much longer for him.  Dinner, then- I enjoy cooking and it'll give me some time to get ready for this, for him.  I don't know what he likes, what he wants, and the anticipation is tying me up in knots, because this won't be a hurried, beautiful moment in the backseat of a car.  It'll be him and I, together, exploring what's between us, intimate and heady, not driven by emotion or adrenaline but by want and need and something that I'm afraid to name, yet.

I laugh a little as he whimpers, then push him slightly.

"Go work," I say, and as he walks down the hall I head out.  I've got an evening to plan.


	24. Push, Part III

I head to the store and browse the aisles- there’s something calming about grocery shopping, walking around and picking whatever grabs your fancy. My mother used to make a game of it when I was a child, just her and I and my sister Leokadia. Zuzanka is five years younger still, and by the time she came along I’d already been sent away to school. Leo was a quiet baby, content to sit in the cart and watch while Mother sent me to fetch this or that, always ready with a smile and a word of praise when I presented her with the prize, a jar of this or a can of that.

Whenever I see a screaming child in the supermarket, I wonder how my mother did it- perhaps just involving us in the game of “find it!” was enough to satisfy. Maybe it had something to do with Father- when childish begging earns you a cuff to the side of the head, you learn to keep your mouth shut and accept what you’re given.

I’d learned to cook with Mother, watching her stir and chop and measure fearlessly and confidently. She’d never used recipes, had learned at her own mother’s knee how to season and prepare, her lack of education never an impediment in the kitchen. As an adult I realize how brilliant it was, how she effortlessly kept hundreds of recipes in her head, a simple taste often enough to tell her exactly what was needed.

When I went to vet school I relished cooking on my own, moving away from the typical college diet of pizza and burgers to the tastes of my childhood. Not that I haven’t picked up a recipe or two here and there, Italian, Greek, Indian- I make a mean curry. There’s something both scientific and creative about cooking, about putting together a set of ingredients in a certain way to achieve a specific result, of knowing what’s necessary and what you can improvise.

Garrett’s cupboards have mostly Spaghetti-Os and cereal in them, milk and Coke in the fridge, said appliance gaily festooned with take-out ads and coupons. His mother used to cook fantastic dinners when he brought me over; I don’t know how he can be satisfied with night after night of packaged crap. Not that I don’t remember what it was like in college to live off of ramen noodles and hot dogs, but really, aren’t we beyond that stage of dietary hara-kiri?

I pick up some apples, oranges, bananas, a selection of vegetables, chicken, steak, fish, some decent coffee, salad fixings, bread, cereal that doesn’t contain chalky marshmallows, some decent wine, a can of this and a jar of that, and by the time I’m done I grimace just a bit at the loaded cart. I’d gotten more than I intended, especially with the spices, but I suppose I have to start somewhere. I’d picked up a few pans and some tupperware for leftovers- _Grosz do grosza, a będzie kokosza_ as my mother used to say.

I check out and load everything into the car, planning on the drive home. Carbonara, I think, with a salad, garlic bread and that Riesling. When I get home I let Mabs out and unload the car, the faint sound of music coming through the door of Garrett’s office. Curiosity nibbles a bit, and I’m tempted to go have a look, but he might not appreciate the interruption, and I’ve got a dinner to cook. I tuck a towel into my waistband for an apron and roll up my sleeves, falling into the easy rhythm of chopping onion, mincing garlic, dicing the pancetta and grating the parmesan. While the bacon is cooking and draining, I pop the garlic bread in the oven and throw together the salad, then start the pasta cooking.

Pounce and Warden are twining around my ankles and meowing with a ferocity that suggests a long familiarity with handouts- I pop the cats into the bedroom and shut the door. You don’t make a dish with cheese and bacon and plan to leave it unattended, ever, in the presence of cats. Mabs at least I can trust to mind her manners, but cats have a mind of their own. Wiggums stares balefully at me as I shut him in, and I feel a prickle of guilt. “I know, I know, you weren’t begging,” I explain, “But what goes for two of you goes for all of you.” He flounces away and settles on the bed with a look of disgust on his furry face as I shut the door.

I pull the junk off the table and rummage around Garrett’s kitchen for table settings- he has a few cloth placemats and napkins that I’m almost positive have never seen the light of day, and a further search reveals some dusty wineglasses. I open the wine up to breathe for a bit and wash the glasses, then set the table. I’d found a couple of candles in my search for kitchen implements, and the idiot romantic in me pushes me to scrounge up the crystal candlesticks from the living room and make a real dinner of it. Not that I’m planning on doing this every night, but at least for this night, our first night, our first dinner, I can.

Finally, when the pasta is ready, I stir in the egg and cheese mix, tossing with the bacon and seasoning quickly. I plate everything up and set the table- is it too much? It’s done now, but maybe- something casual, simple would have been better. _Since the day we met,_ he’d said- and suddenly I remember that nothing about this is casual, fear and want crashing in me like conflicting tides.

Fuck it, it’s just dinner, and if I want damn candles, I’ll have damn candles.

I take off my towel-apron and straighten my shoulders- _man up, Anders,_ my father would have said, although never in a circumstance like this, and the thought makes me laugh a little. I head down the hall and quietly open the door to Garrett’s office. He’s leaning over the table, shirt stretched tight over his back, the light shining off his hair as he works. Strong, able fingers sketch with no hesitation, and he puts down one pencil and picks up another, to shade something I can’t quite see-

I step forward and put my hands on his shoulders, and he jumps in surprise and lets out a startled yelp. “Relax, Garrett,” I say, and when my curiosity gets the better of me I have a look.

“Wow,” I say, and the word isn’t enough, really. He’s captured a place, an idyll of peace and beauty and made it manifest on the page, colors graded beautifully, lines strong and sure. I knew, intellectually, that he was an artist by trade, but I’d always associated architecture and design with lines and rulers and grids. But this is more, and when I look at the pictures pinned to the wall, I can see his design like a faint tracery, superimposed over the dilapidated garden, the fallen, crumbling walls, the weeds.

“Garrett, that’s...beautiful,” I say, and I feel his cheek shift next to mine in a smile.

“Glad to know my college education didn’t go to waste,” he says glibly, and the sound of that tenor voice so close makes my toes curl just a bit. He shifts under my hands, rolling his shoulders, and moves his neck stiffly. “What time is it?” he asks, and I slide my arm under his in a half-embrace, showing him my watch. He’s warm and that scent rolling off him, faint, masculine, the stretch of his t-shirt under my hands are making thinking slightly difficult.

He leans back and stretches, saying, “Sorry, I got a bit caught up in the moment- just trying to get this project off the ground.” As if he had to apologize for working. He’s so tense, and so I settle my palms onto his shoulders, stroking the back of his neck lightly before pressing in with my thumbs, moving down to rub the tension out of his shoulders. He lets out a low sound that _does_ things to me, his eyes closing, and says, “You have about- _mmmn_ , a hundred years to stop doing that.”

“Greedy,” I say in mock-seriousness, and as he relaxes under my hands I start to rethink dinner. It could wait, while we-

Cats in the bedroom, table set. Damn.

“You have magic hands,” he says, and I grin. That’s me, magic Anders.

“Ta-da! Sparklefingers!” I quip, waggling my fingers facetiously. He makes a disappointed noise, and the thought of having my hands on him, or his hands on me, almost makes me rethink dinner- again. But- later.

Before he can tempt me further, I tug on the short sleeve of his shirt. “Come on- time to eat, oh slayer of paper dragons, rescuer of decrepit gardens and sad public spaces.”

“I don’t know whether to feel flattered or emasculated,” he mutters, following me out of the office. “Wow,” he says, suddenly, “I don’t think I’ve ever actually eaten at the table.” His surprise and genuinely appreciative tone are addictive, and when he says almost as an aside, “Hell, people pay to eat this kind of dinner,” I can’t help but laugh.

He turns to me and I pull out his debit card and the receipt, handing them over. “Technically, you did,” I say.

“I- just-“ he looks so surprised, “Thanks. I don’t think anyone’s really cooked for me before.”

I shrug, _no big deal,_ but I can’t help but preen a little. It _does_ look fantastic.

We sit down and eat, and as good as it is (of course) it’s a bit hard to focus. Garrett’s watching me, eyes dark and serious and beautiful, and being the center of that intense stare is indescribably arousing. “What?” I say, because the tension in the air is building, and because he’s so, so beautiful in candlelight.

“You look gorgeous,” he says, and I can’t help the heat that rises in my face. I take a sip of wine and look back- dark, dark brown hair, straight and thick and nearly black, dark brown eyes, his shirt delineating every inch of a beautiful build, the fine, dark hairs along his arms, artist’s hands, and suddenly I’m remembering the feel of those hands on my skin, around my cock. I struggle to get something coherent out, settling for “You’re not so bad, yourself.” I toy with the wineglass and watch him flush a bit.

“So,” I say, and ask, finally, something that’s been eating at me all day- “How is it that you never said anything to me?”

He chews his lip. “I- how do you say ‘hey, by the way, best-buddy-of-mine in a relationship with someone else, I’d like to take you out and then take you home, ‘kay?”

“I wasn’t always with someone else,” I answer.

He shrugs restlessly. “You needed me as a friend, and you never-“ His tone changes, just a bit, and I’m far, far too familiar with self-doubt to miss the sudden slump of his shoulders. “You never seemed to look at me like that, so I assumed you weren’t interested.”

He stands and gathers up the plates, ending the silence.

“I can get that,” I say, but he shakes his head, walking into the kitchen.

“Cook doesn’t clean- Mom’s rules,” he says firmly, so I let him have the dishes and focus on putting away the leftovers. He gives the dishes a quick rinse, getting the front of his shirt soaked with a few errant sprays of water, and I can’t help but grin at the view, white shirt plastered to his stomach, like a present I can’t wait to unwrap. I’m feeling giddy, reckless from the bit of wine, and when he finishes up, drying his hands on the towel, I give him a cheeky leer.

“Let’s get you out of those wet clothes,” I say, like a character from a bad porn movie, and he rolls his eyes.

When he looks at me, I see wickedness sparking in those dark brown eyes, and he gives a cocky grin of his own. “Whatever you say,” he says, innocently, and when the shirt comes off in the full light of the kitchen, I can’t stop the small sound of desire that escapes my throat.

Dark hair on his chest, trailing down teasingly into those jeans, skin warm and a few shades darker than my own, his arms and body strong and muscled, not like a bodybuilder, but a little like a swimmer, strength built from a lifetime of work and use, not time in a gym.

“You’re doing wonderful things for my ego,” he says, moving close, and I can’t think of a single thing to say.

“Hmm,” I say, running my palms up his body, skin warm, the feel of wiry hair under my hands-

And then he kisses me, bending down, just a few inches taller, and I’m usually the taller one- it’s oddly romantic, to have someone bending down to kiss you, for a change, and as I taste his mouth, our breath mingling, my arms around his neck, I don’t ever, ever want to stop.

He’s trembling, tense, muscles taut, and I savor one more press of lips before backing off. Beautiful Garrett, flushed, breathless in my arms. I never thought I could have this, but God, if he’ll let me, then I’ll take it, take him, and he’ll be _mine_. I’ll make him mine and never, ever let him go. I’ll show him, with every ounce of skill that I’ve garnered over the years, that for all of the broken pieces of myself, that there are some things that I do very, very well.

“You’re so tense,” I say, and pull him towards the bedroom, opening the door and letting the cats bolt out. I close the door behind us, and, throat dry, say, “Lay on your stomach.”

He sinks into the bed and I straddle him, the weight, feel of him beneath me- God. But first-

I press against the stubborn muscles of his back, the interplay of light, the feel of his skin under my hands, his slight movements underneath me making me light-headed. When he moans under my hands I have to focus, _focus_ on making him feel good, feeling him relax underneath me.

After a few minutes, I say, conversationally, “I always looked, you know.”

“What,” he says, breathily against the bed.

“I always looked,” I say. “I’m not blind, Garrett, and you’re-“ I press the heel of my hand firmly into the muscle under his shoulderblade and feel him resist.

“I’m-“ he says, breathlessly, and I admit, a small, dark part of me likes holding him here, powerless underneath me, breathless in my hands.

“You’re-“ I wrack my brain for comparisons- “like Charlton Heston meets Johnny Weissmuller.” I feel it when he starts to laugh underneath me.

“I hope that’s a commentary on my body and not the simian nature of my friends,” he says snarkily, and I smack him. Brat.

“Ok, ok,” he says, still laughing, “no monkey business.”

I nearly groan at the terrible pun, but I can’t stop the laughter. “Shut up,” I say, snickering.

I look down to see him smiling, eyes closed. “We’re going to have to have a movie marathon now, you realize that,” he says, and I make an agreeable sound, moving my hands to his lower back, then up to his spine.

“So, why didn’t you ever say anything? Since you were-“ he makes a small noise as another muscle loosens under my hands- “looking.”

I- God, I don’t know what to say without sounding pathetic, or like an idiot. _I don’t have a good track record with relationships. I don’t have so many friends that I can afford to lose them to a break-up. I didn’t think you’d want me, especially after Rolan, after Alaric. I didn’t want to fuck up your life. I didn’t want to be rejected._

“I was afraid,” I say, finally.

I move off of him, pull him over to face me, then straddle him again. _Sweetheart_ , I think, as he pulls me down and kisses me, the press of our bodies, his mouth hot on mine.

“Mm,” he says raggedly, “You are so goddamn sexy,” and when he licks my neck, sucks, hard, God, I _need_ him-

“What do you like?” I whisper, because I need to know what he wants, need to know how this will go between the two of us. He doesn’t answer, intent on driving me insane, and I pull back just enough to gather my thoughts.

“Garrett,” I say, fumbling with the buttons on my shirt, “Do you want to fuck me, or do you want me to fuck you?”

My shirt is almost off, and his eyes are dark, he’s beautifully flushed, and when he begs me to fuck him it’s almost more than I can take.

He’s torturing me, running hands up my thighs, up my chest, and I take those wrists and pin them above his head. He’s begged me to take him, and God, I’m going to enjoy every second of it.

“I thought it’d be the other way around,” I whisper. I’m glad, actually that it’s not- I don’t want a repeat of this afternoon, don’t want to inadvertently flash back-

 _NO-_ I tell myself as firmly as I can. I will NOT bring Nem into this, will NOT let him take this from me.

“Um- surprise?” he says when I nip at his ear, pulling a laugh from me, sweet Garrett. I bring a hand down and toy with his beard, enjoying the texture. I’ve always enjoyed beards on men, Karl spoiled me, I suppose, and the roughness of hair along that strong jaw is a tactile delight.

He stays where he is, prey to the beast in me, and I move down his body, teasing his nipples, trailing my mouth down his stomach with kisses and small, gentle bites.

He makes such beautiful sounds, and when I get his belt undone, jeans and underwear off, _mine_ , and God, such a beautiful, uncut cock. I draw him into my mouth, enjoying the feel of him, the salt taste of his skin, holding him down with my hands while he moans wildly underneath me. _Mine_.

“Anders-“ he says, desperately, “oh god Anders slow down.” But I can’t wait, because I’ve been imagining him all day, just like this, but the reality is so, _so_ much better, and I take him to the hilt, swallowing. “Please,” he begs, and I feel him go rigid in my throat, so close. I give him a little suck and come off, and when he opens his eyes to look at me, I smile and lick along the bottom of his cock. “Fuck,” he moans, and I grin, because he’s mine, to tease, to torture, to take.

“Where do you keep-“ I say as I take the rest of my clothes off- _oh, God, please have condoms. I can’t take a walk of shame right now._ I also don’t want to explain, at least at this very moment, that we can’t take chances, because I need to get to a doctor and get tested to make sure Nem didn’t give me anything. He nods towards the nightstand, saying “Drawer,” and I pull it open. Thank God, and I pull out the lube and a condom- and what have we here-

He’s got several toys tucked away, and the thought of him in this bed, flushed and hard and moaning, fucking himself with a dildo, other hand on his cock-

I grin at him and watch him blush. “It’s been a while,” he says, and I laugh, closing the drawer, and tuck the thought about fucking him with a toy and sucking him off at the same time for another day.

I roll a condom on and slick up, pushing him on his side. I slide one finger in, then a second. “How long,” I say, because he’s always been reticent about mentioning lovers, or-

God, if he’s only had- I do a quick mental calculation- four lovers in the last eight years-

 _Since the day we met,_ he’d said- had he been...waiting? For me?

“Not since Ethan,” he says breathlessly, and I think back-

“The naughty redhead? That was what, eight months ago?”

He sighs. “It was just sex- he was a nice guy, but he wasn’t-“ I pull out my fingers and push against him, _mine, sweetheart, mine,_ and hear him cry out, pushing back against me.

“-wasn’t what, Garrett,” I say, because even if I know, I need to hear it, need to hear him say it.

“Wasn’t you,” he says, and I push slowly inside. It’s been so, _so_ long since I’ve loved anyone this way-

“God, you feel good,” I moan, rocking slowly into him, feeling him tight and perfect around me.

We move slightly, and his mouth finds mine, gasping against me, pushing back, and he’s so beautiful.

“When you were in bed, alone,” I say, “fucking yourself with that dildo, were you wishing it was me, fucking you, like this?”

“Yes,” he whimpers, his hand on his cock as I fuck him, both of us so close, that tenor voice rolling through me like an electric shock.

“What else?” I ask, _what else do you want, sweetheart, what else can I give you? Tell me, and it’s yours._

“You,” he rasps out, “always you,” and then he comes, ass tightening around me, crying out and pushing back against me, body tensing with every pulse of his orgasm.

“ _Fuck_ , yes, Garrett,” I moan, following a moment later, pressing more deeply into him, once, twice.

We lay there for a moment, my hand over his belly, still inside him, breathing together, connected, one. _Mine_. After a little while I pull out and head off to the bathroom to clean up and give him a chance to do the same.

When I come back in he’s laying on the bed, relaxed, smiling, and when he makes room for me something in me shifts. _I can have this._

We fall asleep in each other’s arms, and I groggily realize I’ve left the door open when the cats come in. Warden curls up on the pillow next to Garrett, Wiggums at our feet, and when Pounce starts kneading my neck with sharp claws, I push him away. _Need to trim their claws- tomorrow,_ I think. He comes back, purring, the brat, but he’s so happy that I don’t have the heart to push him away again.

I’m surrounded by love, and too tired to process or fight it. “Who’s a good kitty,” I mutter, rubbing under Pounce’s chin, and fall asleep to the sound of his purr, Garrett’s heartbeat strong and steady next to me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for those of you offended by my wine/food pairing. I'm (obviously) no wine expert, and when I wrote this from Garrett's POV I actually had a different food in mind. Brain flubbed and I wrote carbonara, and it's stuck on the k!meme with white wine and carbonara for better or worse. So I tried to do a bit of research for which white would work, and I found a few places that suggested Riesling. And I like Riesling! So.../shrug. If it makes you feel better, there's only one spot where the word "Riesling" appears- just headcanon it out with your wine of choice and chalk it up to writer!fail if you care so much.


	25. Well I Wonder, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt on the k!meme: _I don't know about anyone else, but this anon happens to love it whenever a big tough manly man gets the shit beat out of him every once in a while. So I'm making this request, I would like to see Hawke hurt and by that I mean I want him to be hurt really bad. I'm talking about lots of blood, maybe some broken limbs, completely up to the author how far they want to take it._
> 
>  _BUT, this is where Anders comes in. After Hawke gets the beating of a lifetime, Anders comes in all panicked and feeling guilty, but he comforts and takes care of Hawke._
> 
> Trigger warning for near-death experience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to the awesome Tasharene, who provided me with Anders' prayer. <3 I seriously want to learn Polish now, just so you know. And we're back to Garrett's POV!

Hot and cold, dark. It’s dark, and I can’t open my eyes, and I don’t know why. Hurts.

Hurts, oh god.

Voices- he’s yelling, and dark.

“-I’m his boyfriend!” Dark.

Voices- “-sister’s three hours away, for God’s sake-“

Dark.

His voice, pleading, “-let me come with him, please-“

His voice breaks and-

Dark.

Voices- Mom?

“-got here as soon as I could, _let us through-_ “

She sounds so angry, and I want to say _sorry, Mama, I’m sorry, don’t be angry_ and I don’t know why-

 _Wszechmogący, wieczny Boże, Ojcze i dawco życia, wiekuisty Lekarzu wierzących, spojrzyj na Garrett, który choruje. Wejrzyj na jego cielesne i duchowe cierpienia. Udziel mu swojej pomocy-_

Over and over I hear it, like a scratchy record of a favorite song that you play over and over and over, voice hoarse, a spot of dull white pain on the back of my hand, my other hand held, warm, fingers, like when I was five on the first day of kindergarten, Dad holding my hand so that I’d be safe-

“Don’t you _dare_ , Garrett,” he says, and I want to tell him it’ll be fine, I’m right here, but I can’t form the words-

Dark.

It _hurts-_

Shouting, like sound through water, and I’m so tired, so tired-

“No, _don’t_ ,” and he’s crying, and I don’t know why, “- _please_ ,” and I’m trying-

“No, no, no, you _can’t-_ “ _Mama, I’m sorry,_ I’m trying-

Dark.

The next time there’s a _me_ out of the darkness, climbing out of unconsciousness like the fish I had when I was seven, who swam towards gently waving fingers, I hear him again.

 _“-Wszechmogący, wieczny Boże, miłosierny Lekarzu dusz i ciał Twoich dzieci, wysłuchaj nasze prośby zanoszone za chorego, dla którego upraszamy Twoje zmiłowanie, aby odzyskawszy zdrowie złożył Ci dziękczynienie. Przez Chrystusa, Pana naszego. Amen.”_

He pauses, small, shifting sounds that I can’t interpret, a sip of something, so quiet, and the back of my hand throbbing dully, and it’s only then that I become vaguely aware of pain _everywhere._

I can’t open my eyes; it’s as if they’re weighted down, and I can’t move, and when a hand cradles mine again I want to cry.

“Garrett,” and his voice is raspy, worn, “I’m here. I’m here, love.”

And in that moment, I think muzzily that’s it’s ok to be mostly dead, for that one word.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m so sorry. I should have said it earlier. I should have, love. God, please-“ his voice drops to a cracked whisper. “Please let him wake up, please, so I can say it.”

I struggle against the thousand-pound weights over my eyes, my chest, the ache, everywhere, the haze of something that won’t _let me_ wake up. I want to wake up. I’ve never wanted anything so fiercely, so much, because when I wake up, he’ll say it.

Darkness drags me down again, down, dark, dark.

“Big Brother?” comes a voice, small and tired and scared, and there’s a touch on my face, faint, delicate, careful.

Not _Mama_ this time, but _Beth,_ my Beth, my baby sister.

“Wake up, Garrett, please,” she says. “I know it’s difficult, and it hurts, but we’re here and we love you and we _need_ you, Big Brother.”

I’m trying-

Dark.

The next time I wake up it’s sudden- a dark and formless void one moment, _me_ the next, I’m here, and as I struggle finally, _finally,_ I manage to crack my eyes open.

My love is sitting on a chair next to me, holding my hand in his, and he looks so tired, head bent against the raised back of my hand.

 _Move, damn you,_ I think to myself, and glory of glories, my hand obeys.

He startles at the movement of my fingers, and beautiful warm eyes find mine, so worried-

My mouth tastes like I’ve been asleep for a thousand years. I manage, with effort to lick my lips.

“Hey,” I say, and my voice sounds dry and scratchy and small.

“ _Garrett-_ “ he manages, and a moment later a tear rolls down his cheek. “Garrett,” he says, and I can’t remember but there was something important, before, a promise, something, and damn it I can’t remember.

“What happened?” I croak out, because everything is sharpening, from the fact that I can barely open my eyes, to the fact that I can barely _move_ , to the fact that pain is beginning to register on a scale I’ve never even imagined.

I whimper, and whatever he was going to say disappears as he stands up and runs into the hall, shouting for a nurse, a doctor.

Someone comes in, someone in flowered scrubs, a face I can’t register, and there, next to her is my Beth, face so very pale, circles ringing her eyes. They do something, put something in what I now realize is an IV in my hand, the bright spot of pain amongst the dull, and within moments it’s beginning to fade, everything-

I struggle against the tide, the cessation of pain is wonderful, fantastic, amazing, but I don’t _want_ to go into the dark again, because he promised, _something,_ and I don’t even know what it is, but I want it, more than I’ve ever wanted anything.

I move just a bit, and the thin scream that comes out of nowhere matches the blazing pain in my ribs.

“Oh God, Garrett, don’t move,” he says, and I don’t, because suddenly I realize that the scream was mine, and he looks like he’s been cut, fractured by the sound. “You’re in the hospital,” he says, words tumbling out frantically, “A guy in a truck ran a red light, and there was an accident, and you’ll be ok, just _don’t move,_ ” he says, and Beth reaches out and does what I can’t, gripping him by the hand, comfort he needs, and I breathe shallowly, closing my eyes and letting the warmth seep through me.

I wake up, but this time to light, warmth and light and drowsiness, like when we wake up together on a Saturday morning with nowhere to go, and he traces a hand over my stomach, lips on my shoulder as sun streams in through the gauzy curtains.

My eyes are open before I know it, and he’s speaking, he’s been watching, I think-

“Garrett, you’re being given pain meds on a regular basis, you’re out of the woods, so they think it’s safe. You’re going to be ok,” he says, firmly, and I manage to tilt my head ever so slightly to the side to see him.

“Ok,” I say lazily, because here I am in bed, sleeping the day away, and here’s my handsome lover come to kiss me, and I’m warm and the pain isn’t mine, it’s just over to the left somewhere, belongs to someone else, not me.

He holds up a cup with a straw, and I sip, delicately, as if it were a fine vintage and not water from a hospital cup.

When he sets it down I blink, and try to smile. “Hi,” I say, and he blinks rapidly.

“I love you,” he says suddenly, and now I _know_ I’m dreaming, but I smile foolishly because it’s quite possibly one of the best dreams I’ve ever had.

“I love you too,” I say, because I do, and because that’s what you say, even in a dream, right?

He looks at me, eyes wide, and I look back.

“Garrett,” he says, “You’ve been in an accident. You’re in the hospital, and you’re hurt, but you’re going to be ok. Do you understand?”

“Sure,” I say, and grin as best I can. “But can I hear the other thing again?”

Eyes stare at me for a moment. “I love you,” he says, clearly.

“Again,” I demand, because my hand hurts, and hands don’t hurt in dreams-

“I love you, Garrett Hawke,” he says, and I realize suddenly that I’m really awake, and he’s really saying it-

“Am I dying?” I ask, because that’s what this is, a last wish to a dying man-

“Not anymore,” he says, and he leans in to kiss me gently, sweetly.


	26. Well I Wonder, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ANGST ANGST ANGST.

Over the next few days I’m awake for a few hours at a time before the meds put me under, Beth and my doctor filling me in on the details, Anders a constant at my side. A random person, behind the wheel of a car, filled with rage and barreling through a red light like he owned it put me here- his name was Ari, Ari..something. I don’t remember. His family came in quietly that week for a short visit, eyes dry and gazes hard, exchanging insurance information. He was killed instantly, thrown through the windshield, my seat belt and my Baby saving me from a similar fate.

I’d been in surgery or comatose for nearly three days. The doctor had reeled it off, simply imparting information, while my Beth looked haggard and Anders held my hand tightly, so tightly.

“We almost lost you, twice,” he says, and I don’t know how to feel. How does someone feel when they’ve almost died?

 _I love you,_ he whispers, and it should make me happy, and part of it does, the part of me that just wants to accept it, take the words at their surface value and pretend that this means happily-ever-after.

There’s another part of me that sees the fear in his eyes when he says it, that rebels against love being driven by fear, of being loved only because I was nearly lost.

An email from Carver, off in Afghanistan reads laconically _Maybe we should just swear off cars. Glad you’re going to be ok. Is Beth all right? With mom and dad and now you she must have been scared._

I read between the lines as I always do, always have to, with Carver. _She must have been scared_ translates to _I was scared,_ my bratty little brother hiding his concern in the purported feelings of others.

Anders leaves the hospital to take care of the pets, to grab a shower and a few hours of sleep- on the fifth day I tell him to go back to work. He frowns and demurs that he should be here, for me, and I don’t know how to tell him that he’s driving me mad. I hate hospitals, I hate weakness, I hate needing someone to help me into the bathroom as if I’m in my nineties instead of my twenties.

But even that’s preferable to the damned catheter.

My list of injuries is long and involved, and I apparently had surgery twice without knowing it. Hip fracture, broken ribs, ruptured spleen, concussion- I’m apparently the next Bionic Man, with screws and plates and metal galore. I’m bruised, battered, cut and scraped, nearly gutted on Baby’s steering column when she crumpled.

I might have cried a little when they told me she was totaled, my Baby, my car, repository of memories that spanned over a decade. But a car is a _thing,_ and when I’m not busy mourning the loss of a _thing_ I remember to be grateful that I’m alive.

I don’t remember that day at all- my last memory prior to it is crawling into bed with Anders, both of us tired, my arm around his waist while we talked about little things, drifting off-

And that could have been it. Had it gone just a little differently he’d be mourning my corpse instead of holding my hand, and he knows it and I know it. But you can’t live your life in fear of death; you can’t make decisions or say things based on what you might lose instead of what you have to gain, and he’s driving me _insane_ without even meaning to.

I’m not even sure how much of it is pain and meds and fear and stress on my part, and how much of it really is him. But he’s an easy target, always within reach, close at hand, ready with a pillow or a drink of water or a movie, and when my frustration bubbles over he retreats as though I’ve hit him.

And I’m trying not to hurt him, god knows I’m trying.

On the eighth day of my prolonged hospital stay he comes after work, visibly relieved to see me sitting up, sort of, the bed adjusted to give me a view of something other than the ceiling.

“Hey,” he says, leaning in to brush a kiss across my lips, teasing with just a hint of tongue before pulling back, and I want to throttle him. I want to throttle everything, actually, the meds making me swing dizzily between drunk and itchy near-pain.

He sits down and we exchange a handful of sentences about work, about home, about Mabs and the kitties and god, I want to go home. He’s set another damned bouquet of flowers on the table, from Av and Don, matching in quantity the bunch from Al and Elissa. Isabela sent a get-well card and porn- the inside of the card read “Enjoy the gift that keeps on giving,” and was signed “Bela and Leto.” Huh. Beth went home to finish the last two weeks of her school term, leaving me with Anders and promising to come back as soon as finals were over to stay and help me recuperate.

“So, I was thinking,” he says, sitting forward, eyes intense, hands folded in the way he only does when he’s nervous. “You know, how we talked before, at Aveline’s wedding?”

I try to think back, but I’m drawing a blank on everything except the wedding, how fantastic he looked in a tux, the amazing sex we’d had, and god, I want to get home and be well enough for sex, stat. “About what?” I say.

He looks at his hands. “About...” he pauses, “About getting married. You know, I’ve been thinking, and it wouldn’t be such a bad idea, you know-“

 _You know, you know,_ he keeps saying, and my brain is working overtime, but not fast enough to keep up with my mouth, words spilling out before I can stop, can think, can even process the fact that my boyfriend is asking me to marry him out of _fear._ Yes, I know, and it’s making me sick to my stomach with anger and those damned _meds-_

“Fuck, Anders,” I say, quite clearly, and he looks up at me, surprised. “I nearly die, and suddenly it’s protestations of undying love and marriage proposals? _Fuck._ ”

He looks wounded now, fragile, hurt, and some part of me wants him to hurt as badly as I do. “Would you even be asking if this hadn’t happened? Would you even have dared to say _I love you_ to me, when we’ve been seeing each other for what, eight months?”

He reaches out and takes my hand, eyes pleading. “Garrett, I was holding back from saying it because I thought you should have a normal life, not be tied down to someone like me-“

I grip his hand so hard it hurts. “And this makes it all better? Me being a fucking cripple suddenly makes it all right?”

He swallows, throat bobbing, and a part of me is screaming at myself, god, I know how much it must have cost him to say this, to ask this, how much I’m hurting him now-

“It would kill me to lose you,” he says, voice cracking, and I shut my eyes, turning away from him, because I can’t leave the room, can’t leave the fucking _bed,_ and I know he means it, I _know_ he loves me, but this wasn’t how I wanted it from him, not at all.

“You could have trusted me,” I say, and my voice sounds tired, even to myself. “You could have told me before this. You have so much _faith_ in everything but me- god, this isn’t even about us, it’s about _you_ and the fact that _you’re_ afraid. Well I’ve been afraid, too, afraid every day that something I’d say would drive you away again, that you didn’t believe in me, in _us_ enough to even-“ A hot tear rolls down my cheek, and I don’t care whether or not he sees it, because he’s destroying me- “enough to even tell me that you love me.”

He lets go my hand, and the room is quiet except for the occasional beep of a machine, the murmur of the TV in the next room.

“Fine,” he says, voice low and rough and anguished and angry. I look over to see that he’s hunched over, hands over his eyes, fingers in his hair. He stands up, eyes vivid and angry and bright and beautiful. “You could just have said _no_ ,” he says, and pushing the chair back picks up his coat and walks out.

I wipe my face and close my eyes, and when the next dose of my meds come, I let them take me under without a murmur.

He comes back in the morning, of course, face drawn, pale, determined, and kisses my forehead. “See you after work,” he says shortly, and we don’t talk about it, but I know he’ll be back in nine hours, and I pretend that I’m not counting them.

On the fourteenth evening they let him take me home, with a folding walker, crutches, meds and instructions. I’ll have physical therapy and Beth is coming to stay and help, and he tucks me into the little Prius, the car quiet and new and so small compared to my Baby that I can’t help but mourn.

We get inside and onto the couch, Mabs and the cats both happy and wary- me, they know, but the hospital smell throws them off, my observant Mabs noting with intelligent eyes the way I can barely walk. Anders gets me pillows and a blanket, and even just the short walk inside has me shaking with exhaustion. Mabs jumps up carefully next to me, laying her head in my lap and watching me for any signs of discomfort. Anders unpacks the rest of the car, then comes inside, the sound of him tinkering around in the kitchen comforting and familiar.

“Tea?” he says, and I nod, and within the hour we’re settled together on the couch, watching a movie, learning how to fit our bodies together again. I fall asleep halfway through the movie, and six hours later he wakes me long enough for meds, a trip to the bathroom, and then the long trek to our bedroom.

“I love you,” he whispers in the darkness, and when his hand finds mine, we twine our fingers together. “I love you too,” I say, because I do, and because no matter how we hurt each other, at least we’re always there to patch each other back up afterwards. Because that’s what you do, when you love someone. And I fall asleep easily for the first time in two weeks, his body curled carefully next to me, the sound of our mingled breathing quiet comfort in the night.


	27. Well I Wonder, Part III

The next few weeks crawl by. My doctor told me to do as much as I’m able- the main problem with people who’ve had hip surgery is _not_ exercising. I curse his name every time I get from the bed to the bathroom, or the bedroom to the living room.

Beth is staying in the guest room, and while Anders is at work she looks after me. In some ways it’s easier with her, because when I’m an ass she rolls her eyes and yells back. It’s easier with family, I think, because no matter what she’ll always be my sister.

With Anders it’s more difficult, more delicate. There’s always the possibility of striking a fatal blow, of words escalating into something neither of us wants, ending in one of us walking out. We’ve come so close to that already, and we haven’t talked, really, since the hospital.

I’m sitting on the couch on a Wednesday afternoon, watching a stupid soap opera and wishing I could work.

But the Vael renovation is in full swing, and I’m in no shape to visit the site. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. I can barely walk from my living room to my kitchen, Mabs trailing after me, watchful, worried, to get a goddamn drink.

Beth had stopped offering to get me things after the first week- we’d both gotten tired of it and I’m supposed to be _exercising._ As if physical therapy isn’t torture enough.

“Garrett, you need to talk to him.” My baby sister is commenting on the soap opera that is my life while the same garbage plays on the tv behind her. _Life imitating art,_ I think, and roll my eyes at the utter stupidity of it.

“Thanks, genius, I _know_ I need to talk to him. It’s just- what the hell do I even say, Beth? He threw it all at me in one huge chunk, love, marriage, and for all of the wrong fucking reasons.” I’m pissed and tired and my ribs are aching in time with the throb in my hip, and I want to turn the walker into a fucking sculpture, twist and bend screaming metal until I’ve tortured it as much as it tortures me.

“Garrett, you didn’t see him in the hospital. He was frantic when they wouldn’t let him see you, and as soon as I got her and okayed it, he was with you. He wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t go home, would hardly sleep.” She raised an eyebrow. “Whether he said it or not before, do you really think he doesn’t mean it?”

I sigh because I know she’s right- of course he means it. Some things you don’t have to say- some things are known simply in the way he wakes you in the morning, gentle fingertips along skin, the soft brush of lips along your shoulder, the way you turn to him and the way he turns to you and you realize that warm brown eyes have been watching you sleep. It’s in the way you wake up in the middle of the night and go to the bathroom, and when you come back you wrap your arms around him, heartbeats slowing in tandem as you drift back to sleep together. It’s in the way you make love together, in the way names are sighed like caresses, the way you feel when he reaches that moment, seconds before you.

Of course we love each other. It’s just-

I just wanted him to trust me, to believe in me enough to know that this was different, that we were different and that I’d never hurt him.

Beth looks at me and grins. “So who’s going to be the bride? You’d look _gorgeous_ in a dress-“

I throw a pillow at her. “I am not going as the Bearded Lady to my own wedding, thank you very much. Assuming there is a wedding. Ever. And I’m sure Anders would look much more fetching in skirts. Not that either of us would wear a skirt, you wicked girl.” And now I’m picturing Anders in the Marilyn Monroe pose, and the corner of my mouth quirks up despite the ache in my hip.

Beth giggles, all sunshine and light, and in that moment I’m glad for her, glad that I’m here to be here with her, glad that no matter what happens she’ll always be my sister.

Some bonds tie for life, without ever having to be announced or forged in paper. Sometimes they are shackles, and sometimes they are the glue that keeps you together in the darkest of times.

I’d always thought that Anders and I would have that, at least, as friends, and now-

And now it’s different, difficult, fragile, as if we’d taken a bond of hempen rope and replaced it with a gossamer thread of spider silk. So beautiful, and yet so easily destroyed.

And I realize that maybe Anders isn’t the only one living in fear.

Fuck.

I rub my hand across my cheek and sigh. “I’ll talk to him when he gets home. Care to make plans for the evening? Not that I don’t love you but-“

Beth nods, and I’m grateful that she’s not the kind of sister who wants to listen while I have emotionally charged and possibly explosive conversations with my lover.

Although she will of course grill me for details later. Because that’s what siblings do.


	28. Well I Wonder, Part IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here's the last bit of _Well I Wonder_! At last!
> 
> I'm marking _Light_ as done, because I think it could easily end here, although I'll keep an eye out for any more prompts that tickle my fancy and update accordingly if I continue with it. Thanks everyone for the love you've shown my little fic!
> 
> **************************************

I doze off on the couch, awakening abruptly to the sound of Mabs’ stampede to the door. Moments later he’s walking through the door, the professional man, looking like the doctor or vet you’d see on daytime TV. I’m aching a bit, but it isn’t too bad, and I smirk at the realization that I really _do_ have the whole package- intelligent and sweet and sensitive and good-looking, must love animals and long walks on the beach, my Anders.

“Hi,” I say, voice rough with sleep, and rub my eyes with the palms of my hands.

“Hey,” he says, turning to hang up his dark coat, looking like a male model out of a catalogue in his slacks and button-up shirt. “Where’s Beth?”

I clear my throat and shift slightly, rubbing a hand over my beard as I move into wakefulness. “She’s out for the evening. She’s been badgering me to talk to you, and for once I think she might be right.”

He goes into unnatural stillness, his eyes searching my face, and I realize I’ve led off with one of those phrases that strikes fear into hearts, the old ‘we need to talk.’

“Nothing bad,” I qualify, and he relaxes minutely. “I think, anyway.” I struggle to think of how to phrase this in a way that doesn’t come off as threatening, stumbling over my own tongue. “We’ve been going through the motions of normalcy, I think, without talking about what you said, and what I said. About us, and marriage, and love, I mean.”

He’s tense again, I can see it in the set of his shoulders, but this time he won’t look at me, hiding behind a curtain of blond hair that he’s pulled down. “Right,” he says, in a tone that’s so neutral it’s bordering on emotionless.

I feel like an ass, suddenly, because he’s been at work all day, to come home to me, needing him for all of the little things I can’t do myself, and I’ve just hit him over the head with a Talk.

I struggle to my feet, leaning heavily on the walker, trying not to whine. “Look,” I say, and I’m out of breath, “We don’t have to do this now. You’re tired and I’m hungry,” I huff as I scoot the damn metal thing a few steps, “and I love you, ok, so-“ _huff thump thump-_ “don’t worry about it, all right?” 

And I tell myself that I’m saying it for him, and not for me, not because I’m just as afraid.

I scoot the rest of the way to him, leaning to one side as I take his hand, and he looks at me, finally, smiling a bit as I squeeze his hand. It doesn’t quite erase the vulnerability in his eyes, and I wonder what he’s seeing in me in this moment, and how much of a mirror we are to each other.

“I’m just going to-“ I let go of him to gesture towards the bathroom, and he nods, heading into the kitchen. I begin the long trek down the hall, cursing internally every minute, although even I have to admit it’s worlds better than where I was a week ago. Maybe in another two weeks I can forgo the damn walker, get a cane and a cardigan, fill my pockets with peppermints and curse at the damn kids in my yard like a proper codger.

By the time I’m returning back down the interminable length of my own damn house, cursing the sameness of it all, swearing that I’m going to paint the walls just for a change of scene, dinner is in full swing, something sizzling on the stove as he walks back over, onions, herbs, tomatoes, vermouth and chicken broth. Tomato soup, then, and grilled cheese sandwiches, and I debate sitting at the dining room table until he’s done, or sitting in (and having to get back up from) the couch.

Comfort wins, and I sink back onto the couch, scratching Mabs’ head as she regards me with pleading eyes. “Don’t talk to me,” I say, “he’s the one making sandwiches.”

“She can have _one_ ,” he says from the kitchen, and Mabs’ tail begins to beat furiously against the couch as I unrepentantly wind her up. “Want a sammich? Yes you do, yes you do, cheese sammich for the Mabsy, yes you do.”

I wonder sometimes if pet owners relieve every stupid thing they’ve ever said to their animals when their lives flash before their eyes. Nothing like making it to the Pearly Gates with “Yes you’re a good dog, yes you are” ringing in your ears, right?

But she’s a steadfast companion, my Mabs, and she licks my face as I murmur nonsense to her.

A half-hour later and dinner is served, the best damn tomato soup you’ve ever had along with perfectly browned grilled-cheese. Some people think grilled cheese is easy- in my case, they end up blackened every time. But Anders has a deft hand in the kitchen, measuring herbs and gauging temperature with ease. I wonder if it’s the scientist in him, the part of him that spent hours in chemistry classes transferring to the science of food.

For a man who spends his days diagnosing conditions, performing surgery and dealing with recalcitrant patients, he’s surprisingly domestic. But maybe the steady hand that guides the knife or sutures up cuts allows him finely-tuned control in other areas of life.

And suddenly I’m no longer thinking of food, but sex, and wishing in frustration that this damn hip would hurry up and _heal_ already.

I make my way over to the table, wondering if I should get him one of those _Kiss the Cook_ aprons, distracted by the rumble of my stomach and the food in front of me.

“So,” he says, dipping sandwich into soup, carefully _not_ looking at me, “What did you want to talk about?”

And I’ve thought about it, wondered how the hell you segue into this kind of conversation, how you can question someone about their motives and sincerity while still making it clear that you love them. I still haven’t come up with a good answer, so I forge on as best I can.

“Why did you bring it up, the whole marriage thing? You made it clear before that you weren’t looking for that kind of commitment,” I say, tossing the ball into his court, taking a bite of grilled cheese and chewing.

He sighs, and dips the sandwich back into the soup, and I wonder if he played with his food as a child, if his mother ever told him to stop making mountains out of his mashed potatoes and peas and _eat_ already.

“Temporary insanity?” he offers with a half-smile, and I roll my eyes. Glancing at me, he looks back down at his soup and sighs again. “Honestly, Garrett, I can’t explain it better than that. They wouldn’t let me see you, said that only family would be admitted. I thought you were _dying_ and they wouldn’t let me see you. I just...” He pushes away from the table and heads to the fridge, pulling out a couple of beers, twisting off the tops and handing me one before sitting back down. “I felt like a coward, that I’d never told you how I felt, and I thought you were going to die, and that I’d never get the chance to.” 

He drank half the beer in a few swallows, grimacing. “And then Beth came, and sorted it out, and you came back to us. And all I could think is that I didn’t want this to ever happen again.”

For some reason it strikes me as funny, and I nearly choke on my beer, laughing. “I’m sorry, it’s just life-threatening car-wrecks are _so_ in fashion, but who are we to follow a fad? I say _no more_ , sir, no more-“

“Garrett,” he mutters, but I can see the corners of his mouth quirking slightly. 

A few more bites and I subside, and he sets down his spoon, taking my hand. His thumb traces the top of my hand, and I close my eyes, because _this_ , this stupid little moment with soup and sandwiches and beer and holding hands is everything I’ve ever wanted.

“I just couldn’t, Garrett,” he says, and he puts his other hand to his eyes. “Maybe it’ll be different someday. In a hundred years, maybe someone like me will love someone like you, and no one will keep them apart. But here and now, people _die_ without ever being able to say goodbye, without being able to-“ He takes in a quick breath, and I suddenly realize that he’s there again, in that room with me, begging me not to leave him. “I’m here,” I say, swallowing the lump in my throat, and he looks up, eyes too bright, blinking rapidly.

He takes in another breath, and I squeeze his hand, and after a moment he continues. “It just seemed so stupid, suddenly, that in one of the few places where we could be married, if we wanted to, that we weren’t, that someone could keep me from you, could keep me from telling you that I love you until my last breath, or yours.”

And there’s nothing I can say to that, feeling tears threaten. We sit in silence for a few moments, his thumb stroking the top of my hand, and when I feel like I can manage it, I smile at him, shakily. “We’re a couple of idiots, aren’t we?”

He smiles back, swallowing, walls crumbling, not hiding from me, and I pull him over for a kiss that’s as much laughter as tears.

“I love you,” he says.

“I love you too,” I answer, giddy because I know he truly _means_ it now, not out of fear, but love, and it feels like the first time all over again.

I watch while he cleans up the kitchen, giving Mabs her sandwich away from the table and our own dinner like a responsible pet owner, and he helps me over to the couch where we curl up and watch a movie or two, pain meds kicking in and making me feel drowsy, languorous, warm.

A few weeks later I get rid of the walker, and trade it in for a cane, passing on the peppermints and cardigan. Beth goes home and it’s just the two of us again, he at work while I begin consultations for a new job- a Frenchman who wants to renovate his country property, an old hunting lodge. He invites me to come and stay for a few weeks, walk the grounds, enjoy the area, and I tell him that when I’m recovered I’ll consider it. Anders might enjoy a country vacation.

Beth sent me a bouquet of orange blossoms the other day- I sent her chrysanthemums in response. We’re not making plans any time soon. If it happens, when it happens, it’ll be because we both want it. In the meantime I’m taking steps to give Anders a durable power of attorney, just in case.

But we’re happy, and we’re together, and in the end, that’s what counts.


	29. Drabbles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Various drabbles appearing on Tumblr will be added here. Trigger warning for MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH on the first one, because, well, my Tweedle-Mommy asked me to break her heart with her OTP. So I did. But I hope that this, at least, like so much of Anders and Garrett, is bittersweet as well.

"It's ok," I whisper, holding his hand, every age-spot and wrinkle dear to me, his once red-gold hair long since grey. His breathing quiets, the sounds of the hospital just after midnight a counterpart to this, our last good-night. I stroke his cheek, hoping that he'll open those beautiful eyes one more time. "You go first, love," I whisper, and when death calls him, I close my eyes and burn every word, every moment into memories that will never fade, into a light that will never go out.

************************

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hand in Glove](https://archiveofourown.org/works/250297) by [payroo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/payroo/pseuds/payroo)




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